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5ARAC1NESCA 


BY 


F. MARION CRAWFORD 


Author of “Mr. Isaacs,” “Sant’ llario,” “Don Orsino, 
Etc., etc. 



NEW YORK 

MACMILLAN & CO. 

1894 



An Edition to consist of not more than 100,000 ! 

copies of “Saracinesca,” by F. Marion Crawford, j 
is issued in paper covers and is supplied to the ■ 
trade by 

j 

Messrs. De WOLFE, FISKE & CO., 

BOSTON, MASS. 


With this exception Mr. Crawford’s novels | 
are issued only in cloth, as described on pages 
2, }, and 4 of the advertisements at the back of , 
this book. I 

When the 100,000 copies in paper have been 
sold, the work will not be reissued in this form. 

MACMILLAN & CO., Publishers, 

NEW YORK. ! 


Messrs. Macmillan & Co. take pleas- 
ure in announcing that they are about to issue 
a new novel by Mr. F. Marion Crawford entitled 
“Katharine Lauderdale.” It is to be illustrated by 
Alfred Brennan in a number of Full-page draw- 
ings, and will be published in two volumes, 
i2mo. 


SAKACINESCA 




BY 

F. MARION CRAWFORD 

I ^ 

AUTHOR OP ‘MR. ISAACS,’ ‘ DR. CLAUDIUS,’ ‘A ROMAN SINGER,’ 
‘ZOROASTER,’ ‘A TALE OP A LONELY PARISH,’ ETC. 


NetD ^ork 


MACMILLAN AND CO. 
1894 


All rights reserved 




COPYRIGHT 

1887 

BY 

F. MARION CRAWFORD 


First printed in 1887. 

New Uniform Edition set up and electrotyped Aug. 6, 1891. 
Reprinted October, 1892 ; January, 1893. 


Estate of 


Gitt <'f 

W. H. Hesseibacbf 
1920. 


c < 

* < 

r o 

•ref 


ROBERT DRUMMOND, ELECTROTYPER AND PRINTER, NEW YORK, 


NOTE 


It was at first feared that the name Saracinesca, as it 
is now printed, might be attached to an unused title in the 
possession of a Roman house. The name was therefore 
printed with an additional consonant — Sarracinesca” — in 
the pages of ^ Black wood^s Magazine.^ After careful inquiry, 
the original spelling is now restored. 


SoRBENTO, March 1887. 


♦ 




SARAOINESCA. 


CHAPTER I. 

In' the year 1865 Eome was still in a great measure its old self. 
It had not then acquired that modern air which is now begin- 
ning to pervade it. The Corso had not been widened and 
whitewashed; the Villa Aldobrandini had not been cut through 
to make the Via Nazionale; the south wing of the Palazzo 
Colonna still looked upon a narrow lane through which men 
hesitated to pass after dark; the Tiber’s course had not then 
been corrected below the Farnesina; the Farnesina itself was 
but just under repair; the iron bridge at the Eipetta was not 
dreamed of; and the Prati di Gastello were still, as their name 
implies, a series of waste meadows. At the southern extremity 
of the city, the space between the fountain of Moses and the 
newly erected railway station, running past the Baths of Dio- 
cletian, was still an exercising-ground for the French cavalry. 
Even the people in the streets then presented an appearance 
very different from that which is now observed by the visitors 
and foreigners who come to Eome in the winter. French dra- 
goons and hussars, French infantry and French officers, were 
everywhere to be seen in great numbers, mingled with a goodly 
sprinkling of the Papal Zouaves, whose grey Turco uniforms 
with bright red facings, red sashes, and short yellow gaiters, 
gave colour to any crowd. A fine corps of men they were, too, 
counting hundreds of gentlemen in their ranks, and officered 
by some of the best blood in France and Austria. In those 
days also were to be seen the great coaches of the cardinals, 
with their gorgeous footmen and magnificent black horses, the 
huge red umbrellas lying upon the top, while from the open 
windows the stately princes of the Church from time to time 
returned the salutations of the pedestrians in the street. And 
often in the afternoon there was heard the tramp of horse as a 
detachment of the noble guards trotted down the Corso on 
their great chargers, escorting the holy Father himself, while 


2 


SARACINESCA. 


all who met him dropped upon one knee and uncovered their 
heads to receive the benediction of the mild-eyed old man with 
the beautiful features, the head of Church and State. Many a 
time, too, Pius IX. would descend from his coach and walk 
upon the Pincio, all clothed in white, stopping sometimes to 
talk with those who accompanied him, or to lay his gentle 
hand on the fair curls of some little English child that paused 
from its play in awe and admiration as the Pope went by. For 
he loved children well, and most of all, children with golden 
hair— angels, not Angles, as Gregory said. 

As for the fashions of those days, it is probable that most of 
us would suffer severe penalties rather than return to them, 
beautiful as they then appeared to us by contrast with the 
exaggerated crinoline and flower-garden bonnet, which had 
given way to the somewhat milder form of hoop-skirt madness, 
but had not yet flown to the opposite extreme in the invention 
of the close-fitting princesse garments of 1868. But, to each 
other, people looked then as they look now. Fashion in dress, 
concerning which nine-tenths of society gives itself so much 
trouble, appears to exercise less influence upon men and women 
in their relations towards each other than does any other pro- 
duct of human ingenuity. Provided every one is in the fashion, 
everything goes on in the age of high heels and gowns tied 
back precisely as it did five-and-twenty years ago, when people 
wore flat shoes, and when gloves with three buttons had not 
been dreamed of — when a woman of most moderate dimensions 
occupied three or four square yards of space upon a ball-room 
floor, and men wore peg-top trousers. Human beings since the 
days of Adam seem to have retired like caterpillars into cocoons 
of dress, expecting constantly the wondrous hour when they 
shall emerge from their self-woven prison in the garb of the 
angelic butterfly, having entered into the chrysalis state as mere 
human grubs. But though they both toil and spin at their 
garments, and vie with Solomon in his glory to outshine the 
lily of the field, the humanity of the grub shows no signs of 
developing either in character or appearance in the direction of 
anything particularly angelic. 

It was not the dress of the period which gave to the streets 
of Rome their distinctive feature. It would be hard to say, 
now that so much is changed, wherein the peculiar charm of 
the old-time city consisted; but it was there, nevertheless, and 
made itself felt so distinctly beyond the charm of any other 
place, that the very fascination of Rome was proverbial. Per- 
haps no spot in Europe has ever possessed such an attractive 
individuality. In those days there were many foreigners, too, as 
there are to-day, both residents and visitors ; but they seemed 


SARACINESCA. 


3 


to belong to a different class of humanity. They seemed less 
inharmonious to their surroundings then than now, less offen- 
sive to the general air of antiquity. Probably they were more 
in earnest; they came to Rome with the intention of liking the 
place, rather than of abusing the cookery in the hotels. They 
came with a certain knowledge of the history, the literature, 
and the manners of the ancients, derived from an education 
which in those days taught more through the classics and less 
through handy text-books and shallow treatises concerning the 
Renaissance; they came with preconceived notions which were 
often strongly dashed with old-fashioned prejudice, but which 
did not lack originality: they come now in the smattering 
mood, imbued with no genuine beliefs, but covered with ex- 
ceeding thick varnish. Old gentlemen then visited the sights 
in the morning, and quoted Horace to each other, and in the 
evening endeavoured by associating with Romans to understand 
something of Rome; young gentlemen now spend one or two 
mornings in finding fault with the architecture of Bramante, 
and in the evening,’^ like David’s enemies, they grin like a 
dog and run about the city : ” young women were content to 
find much beauty in the galleries and in the museums, and 
were simple enough to admire what they liked; young ladies 
of the present day can find nothing to admire except their 
own perspicacity in detecting faults in Raphael’s drawing or 
Michael Angelo’s colouring. This is the age of incompetent 
criticism in matters artistic, and no one is too ignorant to 
volunteer an opinion. It is sufficient to have visited half-a- 
dozen Italian towns, and to have read a few pages of fashionable 
aesthetic literature — no other education is needed to fit the 
intelligent young critic for his easy task. The art of paradox 
can be learned in five minutes, and practised by any child ; it 
consists chiefly in taking two expressions of opinion from dif- 
ferent authors, halving them, and uniting the first half of the 
one with the second half of the other. The result is invariably 
startling, and generally incomprehensible. When a young 
society critic knows how to be startling and incomprehensible, 
his reputation is soon made, for people readily believe that 
what they cannot understand is profound, and anything which 
astonishes is agreeable to a taste deadened by a surfeit of 
spices. But in 1865 the taste of Europe was in a very different 
state. The Second Empire was in its glory. M. Emile Zola had 
not written his ' Assommoir.’ Count Bismarck had only just 
brought to a successful termination the first part of his tri- 
machy; Sadowa and Sedan were yet unfought. Garibaldi had 
won Naples, and Cavour had said, ''If we did for ourselves 
what we are doing for Italy, we should be great scoundrels; ” 


4 


SARACINESCA. 


but Garibaldi had not yet failed at Mentana, nor had Austria 
ceded Venice. Cardinal Antonelli had yet ten years of life 
before him in which to maintain his gallant struggle for the 
remnant of the temporal power; Pius IX. was to live thirteen 
years longer, just long enough to outlive by one month the 
‘^honest king,^^ Victor Emmanuel. Antonelli^s influence per- 
vaded Kome, and to a great extent all the Catholic Courts of 
Europe; yet he was far from popular with the Eomans. The 
Jesuits, however, were even less popular than he, and certainly 
received a much larger share of abuse. For the Eomans love 
faction more than party, and understand it better; so that 
popular opinion is too frequently represented by a transitory 
frenzy, violent and pestilent while it lasts, utterly insignificant 
when it has spent its fury. 

But Eome in those days was peopled solely by Eomans, 
whereas now a large proportion of the population consists of 
Italians from the north and south, who have been attracted to 
the capital by many interests — races as different from its 
former citizens as Germans or Spaniards, and unfortunately 
not disposed to show overmuch good-fellowship or loving-kind- 
ness to the original inhabitants. The Eoman is a grumbler by 
nature, but he is also a peace-at-any-price man. Politicians 
and revolutionary agents have more than once been deceived 
by these traits, supposing that because the Eoman grumbled 
he really desired change, but realising too late, when the 
change has been begun, that that same Eoman is but a luke- 
warm partisan. The Papal Government repressed grumbling 
as a nuisance, and the people consequently took a delight in 
annoying the authorities by grumbling in secret places and 
calling themselves conspirators. The harmless whispering of 
petty discontent was mistaken by the Italian party for the 
low thunder of a smothered volcano; but, the change being 
brought about, the Italians find to their disgust that the 
Eoman meant nothing by his murmurings, and that he now 
not only still grumbles at everything, but takes the trouble to 
fight the Government at every point which concerns the in- 
ternal management of the city. In the days before the change, 
a paternal Government directed the affairs of the- little State, 
and thought it best to remove all possibility of strife by giving 
the grumblers no voice in public or economic matters. The 
grumblers made a grievance of this; and then, as soon as the 
grievance had been redressed, they redoubled their complaints 
and retrenched themselves within the infallibility of inaction, 
on the principle that men who persist in doing nothing cannot 
possibly do wrong. 

Those were the days, too, of the old school of artists— men 


SARACINESCA. 


5 


who, if their powers of creation were not always proportioned 
to their ambition for excellence, were as superior to their more 
recent successors in their pure conceptions of what art should 
be as Apelles was to the Pompeian wall-painters, and as the 
Pompeians were to modern house-decorators. The age of 
Overbeck and the last religious painters was almost past, but 
the age of fashionable artistic debauchery had hardly begun. 
Water-colour was in its infancy; wood-engraving was hardly 
yet a great prof ession but the “ Dirty Boy had not yet taken 
a prize at Paris, nor had indecency become a fine art. The 
French school had not demonstrated the startling distinction 
between the nude and the naked, nor had the English school 
dreamed nightmares of anatomical distortion. 

Darwin^s theories had been propagated, but had not yet been 
passed into law, and very few Komans had heard of them; still 
less had any one been found to assert that the real truth of 
these theories would be soon demonstrated retrogressively by 
the rapid degeneration of men into apes, while apes would 
hereafter have cause to congratulate themselves upon not 
having developed into men. Many theories also were then 
enjoying vast popularity which have since fallen low in the 
popular estimation. Prussia was still, in theory, a Power of 
the second class, and the empire of Louis Napoleon was sup- 
posed to possess elements of stability. The great civil war in 
the United States had just been fought, and people still 
doubted whether the republic would hold together. It is hard 
to recall the common beliefs of those times. A great part of 
the political creed of twenty years ago seems now a mass of 
idiotic superstition, in no wise preferable, as Macaulay would 
have said, to the Egyptian worship of cats and onions. Never- 
theless, then, as now, men met together secretly in cellars and 
dens, as well as in drawing-rooms and clubs, and whispered 
together, and said their theories were worth something, and 
ought to be tried. The word republic possessed then, as now, 
a delicious attraction for people who had grievances; and 
although, after the conquest of Naples, Garibaldi had made a 
sort of public abjuration of republican principles, so far as 
Italy was concerned, the plotters of all classes persisted in 
coupling his name with the idea of a commonwealth erected on 
the plan of '' sois mon frere ou je te tue."’ Profound silence on 
the part of Governments, and a still more guarded secrecy on 
the part of conspiring bodies, were practised as the very first 
principle of all political operations. No copyist, at half-a- 
crown an hour, had yet betrayed the English Foreign Office; 
and it had not dawned upon the clouded intellects of European 
statesmen that deliberate national perjury, accompanied by 


6 


SARACTNESCA. 


public meetings of sovereigns, and much blare of many trum- 
pets, could be practised with such triumphant success as events 
have since shown. In the beginning of the year 1865 people 
crossed the Alps in carriages; the Suez Canal had not been 
opened; the first Atlantic cable was not laid; German unity 
had not been invented; Pius IX. reigned in the Pontifical 
States; Louis Napoleon was the idol of the French; President 
Lincoln had not been murdered, — is anything needed to widen 
the gulf which separates those times from these ? The differ- 
ence between the States of the world in 1865 and in 1885 is 
nearly as great as that which divided the Europe of 1789 from 
the Europe of 1814. 

But my business is with Rome, and not with Europe at large. 
I intend to tell the story of certain persons, of their good and 
bad fortune, their adventures, and the complications in which 
they found themselves placed during a period of about twenty 
years. The people of whom I tell this story are chiefly patri- 
cians; and in the first part of their history they have very little 
to do with any but their own class — a class peculiar and almost 
unique in the world. 

Speaking broadly, there is no one at once so thoroughly 
Roman and so thoroughly non-Roman as the Roman noble. 
This is no paradox, no play on words. Roman nobles are 
Roman by education and tradition'; by blood they are almost 
cosmopolitans. The practice of intermarrying with the great 
families of the rest of Europe is so general as to be almost a 
rule. One Roman prince is an English peer ; most of the 
Roman princes are grandees of Spain ; many of them have 
married daughters of great French houses, of reigning German 
princes, of ex-kings and ex-queens. In one princely house 
alone are found the following combinations : There are three 
brothers : the eldest married first the daughter of a great Eng- 
lish peer, and secondly the daughter of an even greater peer of 
France; the second brother married first a German “serene 
highness,” and secondly the daughter of a great Hungarian 
noble; the third brother married the daughter of a French 
house of royal Stuart descent. This is no solitary instance. 
A score of families might be cited who, by constant foreign 
marriages, have almost eliminated from their blood the original 
Italian element; and this great intermixture of races may ac- 
count for the strangely un-Italian types that are found among 
them, for the undying vitality which seems to animate races 
already a thousand years old, and above all, for a very remark- 
able cosmopolitanism which pervades Roman society. A set of 
people whose near relations are socially prominent in every 
capital of Europe, could hardly be expected to have anything 


SARACINESCA. 


7 


provincial about them in appearance or manners; still less can 
they be considered to be types of their own nation. And yet 
such is the force of tradition, of the patriarchal family life, of 
the early surroundings in which are placed these children of a 
mixed race, that they acquire from their earliest years the 
unmistakable outward manner of Romans, the broad Roman 
speech, and a sort of clannish and federative spirit, which has 
not its like in the same class anywhere in Europe. They grow 
up together, go to school together, go together into the world, 
and together discuss all the social affairs of their native city. 
Not a house is bought or sold, not a hundred francs won at 
ecarte, not a marriage contract made, without being duly con- 
sidered and commented upon by the whole of society. And 
yet, though there is much gossip, there is little scandal; there 
was even less twenty years ago than there is now — not, perhaps, 
because the increment of people attracted to the new capital 
have had any bad influence, but simply because the- city has 
gi’own much larger, and in some respects has outgrown a certain 
simplicity of manners it once possessed, and which was its chief 
safeguard. For, in spite of a vast number of writers of all 
nations who have attempted to describe Italian life, and who, 
from an imperfect acquaintance with the people, have fallen 
into the error of supposing them to live perpetually in a highly 
complicated state of mind, the foundation of the Italian char- 
acter is simple — far more so than that of his hereditary antago- 
nist, the northern European. It is enough to notice that the 
Italian habitually expresses what he feels, while it is the chief 
pride of Northern men that whatever they may feel they ex- 
press nothing. The chief object of most Italians is to make 
life agreeable; the chief object of the Teutonic races is to make 
it profitable. Hence the Italian excels in the art of pleasing, 
and in pleasing by means of the arts; whereas the Northern 
man is pre-eminent in the faculty of producing wealth under 
any circumstances, and when he has amassed enough posses- 
sions to think of enjoying his leisure, has generally been under 
the necessity of employing Southern art as a means to that end. 
But Southern simplicity carried to its ultimate expression leads 
not uncommonly to startling results; for it is not generally a 
satisfaction to an Italian to be paid a sum of money as damages 
for an injury done. When his enemy has harmed him, he de- 
sires the simple retribution afforded by putting his enemy to 
death, and he frequently exacts it by any means that he finds 
ready to his hand. Being simple, he reflects little, and often 
acts with violence. The Northern mind, capable of vast intri- 
cacy of thought, seeks to combine revenge of injury with per- 
sonal profit, and in a spirit of cold, far-sighted calculation. 


8 


SARACINESOA. 


reckons up the advantages to be got by sacrificing an innate 
desire for blood to a civilised greed of money. 

Dr. Johnson would have liked the Romans — for in general 
they are good lovers and good haters, whatever faults they may 
have. The patriarchal system, which was all but universal 
twenty years ago, and is only now beginning to yield to more 
modern institutions of life, tends to foster the passions of love 
and hate. Where father and mother sit at the head and foot 
of the table, their sons with their wives and their children each 
in his or her place, often to the number of twenty souls — all 
living under one roof, one name, and one bond of family unity 
— there is likely to be a great similarity of feeling upon all 
questions of family pride, especially among people who discuss 
everything with vehemence, from European politics to the 
family cook. They may bicker and squabble among them- 
selves, — and they frequently do, — but in their outward relations 
with the world they act as one individual, and the enemy of one 
is the enemy of all; for the pride of race and name is very 
great. There is a family in Rome who, since the memory of 
man, have not failed to dine together twice every week, and 
there are now more than thirty persons who take their places 
at the patriarchal board. No excuse can be pleaded for absence, 
and no one would think of violating the rule. Whether such 
a mode of life is good or not is a matter of opinion ; it is, at all 
events, a fact, and one not generally understood or even known 
by persons who make studies of Italian character. Free and 
constant discussion of all manner of topics should certainly 
tend to widen the intelligence; but, on’ the other hand, where 
the dialecticians are all of one race, and name, and blood, the 
practice may often merely lead to an undue development of 
prejudice. In Rome, particularly, where so many families take 
a distinct character from the influence of a foreign mother, the 
opinions of a house are associated with its mere name. Casa 
Borghese thinks so and so, Casa Colonna has diametrically op- 
posite views, while Casa Altieri may differ wholly from both ; 
and in connection with most subjects the mere names Borghese, 
Altieri, Colonna are associated in the minds of Romans of all 
classes with distinct sets of principles and ideas, with distinct 
types of character, and with distinctly different outward and 
visible signs of race. Some of these conditions exist among 
the nobility of other countries, but not, I believe, to the same 
extent. In Germany, the aristocratic body takes a certain 
uniform hue, so to speak, from the army, in which it plays so 
important a part, and the patriarchal system is broken up by 
the long absences from the ancestral home of the soldier-sons. 
In France, the main divisions of republicans, monarchists, and 


SARACIKESCA. 


9 


imperialists have absorbed and unified the ideas and principles 
of large bodies of families into bodies politic. In England, the 
practice of allowing younger sons to shift for themselves, and 
the division of the whole aristocracy into two main political 
parties, destroy the patriarchal spirit; while it must also be 
remembered, that at a period when in Italy the hand of every 
house was against its neighbour, and the struggles of Guelph 
and Ghibelline were but an excuse for the prosecution of pri- 
vate feuds, England was engaged in great wars which enlisted 
vast bodies of men under a common standard for a common 
principle. Whether the principle involved chanced to be that of 
English domination in France, or whether men fiocked to the 
standards of the White Eose of York or the Eed Kose of Lan- 
caster, was of little importance; the result was the same, — the 
tendency of powerful families to maintain internecine tradi- 
tional feuds was stamped out, or rather was absorbed in the main- 
tenance of the perpetual feud between the great principles of 
Tory and Whig — of the party for the absolute monarch, and 
the party for the freedom of the people. 

Be the causes what they may, the Roman nobility has many 
characteristics peculiar to it and to no other aristocracy. It is 
cosmopolitan by its foreign marriages, renewed in every gene- 
ration; it is patriarchal and feudal by its own unbroken tradi- 
tions of family life; and it is only essentially Roman by its 
speech and social customs. It has undergone great vicissi- 
tudes during twenty years; hut most of these features remain 
in spite of new and larger parties, new and bitter political 
hatreds, new ideas of domestic life, and new fashions in dress 
and cookery. 

In considering an account of the life of Giovanni Saracinesca 
from the time when, in 1865, he was thirty years of age, down 
to the present day, it is therefore just that he should be judged 
with a knowledge of some of these peculiarities of his class. 
He is not a Roman of the people like Giovanni Oardegna, the 
great tenor, and few of his ideas have any connection with those 
of the singer ; but he has, in common with him, that singular 
simplicity of character which he derives from his Roman de- 
scent upon the male side, and in which will be found the key 
to many of his actions both good and bad — a simplicity which 
loves peace, but cannot always refrain from sudden violence, 
which loves and hates strongly and to some purpose. 


10 


SAKACIKESCA. 


CHAPTER IL 

The hour was six o^clock, and the rooms of the Embassy 
were as full as they were likely to be that day. There would 
doubtless have been more people had the weather been fine; 
but it was raining heavily, and below, in the vast court that 
formed the centre of the palace, the lamps of fifty carriages 
gleamed through the water and the darkness, and the coach- 
men, of all dimensions and characters, sat beneath their huge 
umbrellas and growled to each other, envying the lot of the 
footmen who were congregated in the ante-chamber up-stairs 
around the great bronze braziers. But in the reception-rooms 
there was much light and warmth; there were bright fires and 
softly shaded lamps; velvet-footed servants stealing softly 
among the guests, with immense burdens of tea and cake; men 
of more or less celebrity chatting about politics in corners; 
women of more or less beauty gossiping over their tea, or fiirt- 
ing, or wishing they had somebody to fiirt with; people of 
many nations and ideas, with a goodly leaven of Romans. They 
all seemed endeavouring to get away from the men and women 
of their own nationality, in order to amuse themselves with 
the difficulties of conversation in languages not their own. 
Whether they amused themselves or not is of small importance; 
but as they were all willing to find themselves together twice 
a-day for the five months of the Roman season — from the first 
improvised dance before Christmas, to the last set ball in the 
warm April weather after Easter — it may be argued that they 
did not dislike each other’s society. In case the afternoon 
should seem dull, his Excellency had engaged the services of 
Signor Strillone, the singer. From time to time he struck a 
few chords upon the grand piano, and gave forth a song of his 
own composition in loud and passionate tones, varied with very 
sudden effects of extreme pianissimo, which occasionally sur- 
prised some one who was trying to make his conversation heard 
above the music. 

There was a little knot of people standing about the door of 
the great drawing-room. Some of them were watching their 
opportunity to slip away unperceived ; others had just arrived, 
and were making a survey of the scene to ascertain the exact 
position of their Excellencies, and of the persons they most 
desired to avoid, before coming forward. Suddenly, just as 
Signor Strillone had reached a high note and was preparing to 
bellow upon it before letting his voice die away to a pathetic 
falsetto, the crowd at the door parted a little. A lady entered 


SARACIKESCA. 


11 


the room alone, and stood out before the rest, pausing till the 
singer should have passed the climax of his song, before she 
proceeded upon her way. She was a very striking woman ; every 
one knew who she was, every one looked towards her, and the 
little murmur that went round the room was due to her en- 
trance rather than to Signor Strillone’s high note. 

The Duchessa d^Astrardente stood still, and quietly looked 
about her. A minister, two secretaries, and three or four 
princes sprang towards her, each with a chair in hand; but she 
declined each offer, nodding to one, thanking another by name, 
and exchanging a few words with a third. She would not sit 
down; she had not yet spoken to the embassadress. 

Two men followed her closely as she crossed the room when 
the song was finished. One was a fair man of five-and-thirty, 
rather stout, and elaborately dressed. He trod softly and car- 
ried his hat behind him, while he leaned a little forward in his 
walk. There was something unpleasant about his face, caused 
perhaps by his pale complexion and almost colourless moustache; 
his blue eyes were small and near together, and had a watery, 
undecided look; his thin fair hair was parted in the middle 
over his low forehead; there was a scornful look about his 
mouth, though half concealed by the moustache; and his chin 
retreated rather abruptly from his lower lip. On the other 
hand, he was dressed with extreme care, and his manner showed 
no small confidence in himself as he pushed forwards, keeping 
as close as he could to the Duchessa. He had the air of being 
thoroughly at home in his surroundings. 

Ugo del Ferice was indeed rarely disconcerted, and his self- 
reliance was most probably one chief cause of his success. He 
was a man who performed the daily miracle of creating every- 
thing for himself out of nothing. His father had barely been 
considered a member of the lower nobility, although he always 
called himself dei conti del Ferice — of the family of the 
counts of his name ; but where or when the Conti del Ferice 
had lived, was a question he never was able to answer satisfac- 
torily. He had made a little money, and had squandered most 
of it before he died, leaving the small remainder to his only 
son, who had spent every scudo of it in the first year. But to 
make up for the exiguity of his financial resources, Ugo had 
from his youth obtained social success. He had begun life by 
boldly calling himself II conte del Ferice.^^ No one had ever 
thought it worth while to dispute him the title; and as he had 
hitherto not succeeded in conferring it upon any dowered 
damsel, the question of his countship was left unchallenged. 
He had made many acquaintances in the college where he had 
been educated; for his father had paid for his schooling in the 


12 


SAHACINESCA. 


Collegio dei Nobili, and that in itself was a passport — for as 
the lad grew to the young man, he zealously cultivated the 
society of his old school-fellows, and by wisely avoiding all 
other company, acquired a right to he considered one of them- 
selves. He was very civil and obliging in his youth, and had 
in that way acquired a certain reputation for being indispen- 
sable, which had stood him in good stead. No one asked 
whether he had paid his tailor’s bill; or whether upon certain 
conditions, his tailor supplied him with raiment gratis. He 
was always elaborately dressed, he was always ready to take a 
hand at cards, and he was always invited to every party in the 
season. He had cultivated with success the science of amusing, 
and people asked him to dinner in the winter, and to their 
country houses in the summer. He had been seen in Paris, 
and was often seen at Monte Carlo ; but his real home and 
hunting-ground was Rome, where he knew every one and every 
one knew him. He had made one or two fruitless attempts to 
marry young women of American extraction and large fortune ; 
he had not succeeded in satisfying the paternal mind in regard 
to guarantees, and had consequently been worsted in his en- 
deavours. Last summer, however, it appeared that he had 
been favoured with an increase of fortune. He gave out that 
an old uncle of his, who had settled in the south of Italy, had 
died, leaving him a modest competence; and while assuming 
a narrow band of crepe upon his hat, he had adopted also a 
somewhat more luxurious mode of living. Instead of going 
about on foot or in cabs, he kept a very small coup§, with a 
very small horse and a diminutive coachman : the whole turn- 
out was very quiet in appearance, but very serviceable withal. 
Ugo sometimes wore too much jewellery; but his bad taste, if 
so it could be called, did not extend to the modest equipage. 
People accepted the story of the deceased uncle, and congratu- 
lated Ugo, whose pale face assumed on such occasions a some- 
what deprecating smile. A few scudi,” he would answer — 
a very small competence ; but what would you have ? I need 
so little — it is enough for me.” Nevertheless people who knew 
him well warned him that he was growing stout. 

The other man who followed the Duchessa d’Astrardente 
across the drawing-room was of a different type. Don Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca was neither very tall nor remarkably hand- 
some, though in the matter of his beauty opinion varied greatly. 
He was very dark — almost as dark for a man as the Duchessa 
was for a woman. He was strongly built, but very lean, and 
his features stood out in bold and sharp relief from the setting 
of his short black hair and pointed beard. His nose was per- 
haps a little large for his face, and the unusual brilliancy of 


SARACIITESCA. 


13 


his eyes gave him an expression of restless energy; there was 
something noble in the shaping of his high square forehead 
and in the turn of his sinewy throat. His hands were broad 
and brown, but nervous and well knit, with straight long 
fingers and squarely cut nails. Many women said Don Gio- 
vanni was the handsomest man in Eome; others said he was 
too dark or too thin, and that his face was hard and his features 
ugly. There was a great difference of opinion in regard to his 
appearance. Don Giovanni was not married, but there were 
few marriageable women in Rome who would not have been 
overjoyed to become his wife. But hitherto he had hesitated 
— or, to speak more accurately, he had not hesitated at all in 
his celibacy. His conduct in refusing to marry had elicited 
much criticism, little of which had reached his ears. He cared 
not much for what his friends said to him, and not at all for 
the opinion of the world at large, in consequence of which state 
of mind people often said he was selfish — a view taken exten- 
sively by elderly princesses with unmarried daughters, and 
even by Don Giovannis father and only near relation, the old 
Prince Saracinesca, who earnestly desired to see his name per- 
petuated. Indeed Giovanni would have made a good husband, 
for he was honest and constant by nature, courteous by dispo- 
sition, and considerate by habit and experience. His reputa- 
tion for wildness rested rather upon his taste for dangerous 
amusements than upon such scandalous adventures as made up 
the lives of many of his contemporaries. But to all matri- 
monial proposals he answered that he was barely thirty years 
of age, that he had plenty of time before him, that he had not 
yet seen the woman whom he would be willing to marry, and 
that he intended to please himself. 

The Duchessa d'Astrardente made her speech to her hostess 
and passed on, still followed by the two men; but they now 
approached her, one on each side, and endeavoured to engage 
her attention. Apparently she intended to be impartial, for 
she sat down in the middle one of three chairs, and motioned 
to her two companions to seat themselves also, which they im- 
mediately did, whereby they became for the moment the two 
most important men in the room. 

Corona d^Astrardente was a very dark woman. In all the 
Southern land there were no eyes so black as hers, no cheeks 
of such a warm dark-olive tint, no tresses of such raven hue. 
But if she was not fair, she was very beautiful; there was a 
delicacy in her regular features that artists said was matchless; 
her mouth, not small, but generous and nobly cut, showed per- 
haps more strength, more even determination, than most men 
like to see in women’s faces; but in the exquisitely moulded 


14 


SAEACINESCA. 


nostrils there lurked much sensitiveness and the expression of 
much courage; and the level brow and straight-cut nose were 
in their clearness as an earnest of the n6ble thoughts that were 
within, and that so often spoke from the depths of her splendid 
eyes. She was not a scornful beauty, though her face could 
express scorn well enough. Where another woman would have 
shown disdain, she needed but to look grave, and her silence 
did the rest. She wielded magnificent weapons, and wielded 
them nobly, as she did all things. She needed all her strength, 
too, for her position from the first was not easy. She had few 
troubles, but they were great ones, and she bore them bravely. 

One may well ask why Corona del Carmine had married the 
old man who was her husband — the broken-down and worn-out 
dandy of sixty, whose career was so well known, and whose 
doings had been as scandalous as his ancient name was famous 
in the history of his country. Her marriage was in itself 
almost a tragedy. It matters little to know how it came about; 
she accepted Astrardente with his dukedom, his great wealth, 
and his evil past, on the day when she left the convent where 
she had been educated; she did it to save her father from ruin, 
almost from starvation; she was seventeen years of age; she 
was told that the world was bad, and she resolved to begin her 
life by a heroic sacrifice; she took the step heroically, and no 
human being had ever heard her complain. Five years had 
elapsed since then, and her father — for whom she had given 
all she had, herself, her beauty, her brave heart, and her hopes 
of happiness — her old father, whom she so loved, was dead, the 
last of his race, saving only this beautiful but childless daugh- 
ter. What she suffered now — whether she suffered at all — no 
man knew. There had been a wild burst of enthusiasm when 
she appeared first in society, a universal cry that it was a sin 
and a shame. But the cynics who had said she would console 
herself had been obliged to own their worldly wisdom at fault; 
the men of all sorts who had lost their hearts to her were 
ignominiously driven in course of time to find them again else- 
where. Amid all the excitement of the first two years of her 
life in the world. Corona had moved calmly upon her way, 
wrapped in the perfect dignity of her character; and the old 
Huca d^ Astrardente had smiled and played with the curled 
locks of his wonderful wig, and had told every one that his 
wife was the one woman in the universe who was above sus- 
picion. People had laughed incredulously at first; but as time 
wore on they held their peace, tacitly acknowledging that the 
aged fop was right as usual, but swearing in their hearts that 
it was the shame of shames to see the noblest woman in their 
midst tied to such a wretched remnant of dissipated humanity 


SARACINESCA. 


15 


as the Duca d’Astrardente. Corona went everywhere, like 
other people; she received in her own house a vast number of 
acquaintances; there were a few friends who came and went 
much as they pleased, and some of them were young; but there 
was never a breath of scandal breathed about the Duchessa. 
She was indeed above suspicion. 

She sat now between two men who were evidently anxious to 
please her. The position was not new; she was, as usual, to 
talk to both, and yet to show no preference for either. And 
yet she had a preference, and in her heart she knew it was a 
strong one. It was by no means indifferent to her which of 
• those two men left her side and which remained. She was 
above suspicion — yes, above the suspicion of any human being 
besides herself, as she had been for five long years. She knew 
that had her husband entered the room and passed that way, 
he would have nodded to Giovanni Saracinesca as carelessly as 
though Giovanni had been his wife^s brother — as carelessly as 
he would have noticed Ugo del Ferice upon her other side. 
But in her own heart she knew that there was but one face in 
all Eome she loved to see, but one voice she loved, and dreaded 
too, for it had the power to make her life seem unreal, till she 
wondered how long it would last, and whether there would ever 
be any change. The difference between Giovanni and other 
men had always been apparent. Others would sit beside her 
and make conversation, and then occasionally would make 
speeches she did not care to hear, would talk to her of love — 
some praising it as the only thing worth living for, some with 
affected cynicism scoffing at it as the greatest of unrealities, 
contradicting themselves a moment later in some passionate 
declaration to herself. When they were foolish, she laughed at 
them ; when they went too far, she quietly rose and left them. 
Such experiences had grown rare of late, for she had earned 
the reputation of being cold and unmoved, and that protected 
her. But Giovanni had never talked like the rest of them. 
He never mentioned the old, worn subjects that the others 
harped upon. She would not have found it easy to say what he 
talked about, for he talked indifferently about many subjects. 
She was not sure whether he spent more time with her when 
in society than with other women; she reflected that he was 
not so brilliant as many men she knew, not so talkative as the 
majority of men she met; she knew only — and it was the thing 
she most bitterly reproached herself with — that she preferred 
his face above all other faces, and his voice beyond all voices. 
It never entered her head to think that she loved him; it was 
bad enough in her simple creed that there should be any man 
whom she would rather see than not, and whom she missed 


16 


SARACIKESCA. 


when he did not approach her. She was a very strong and 
loyal woman, who had sacrificed herself to a man who knew 
the world very thoroughly, who in the thoroughness of his 
knowledge was able to see that the world is not all had, and 
who, in spite of all his evil deeds, was proud of his wife’s 
loyalty. Astrardente had made a bargain when he married 
Corona; but he was a wise man in his generation, and he knew 
and valued her when he had got her. He knew the precise 
dangers to which she was exposed, and he was not so cruel as 
to expose her to them willingly. He had at first watched 
keenly the effect produced upon her by conversing with men 
of all sorts in the world, and among others he had noticed 
Giovanni; but he had come to the conclusion that his wife was 
equal to any situation in which she might be placed. More- 
over, Giovanni was not an lialitue at the Palazzo Astrardente, 
and showed none of the usual signs of anxiety to please the 
Duchessa. 

From the time when Corona began to notice her own pre- 
dilection for Saracinesca, she had been angry with herself for 
it, and she tried to avoid him; at all events, she gave him 
no idea that she liked him especially. Her husband, who at 
first had delivered many lectures on the subject of behaviour 
in the world, had especially warned her against showing any 
marked coldness to a man she wished to shun. Men,” said 
he, are accustomed to that; they regard it as the first indica- 
tion that a woman is really interested ; when you want to get 
rid of a man, treat him systematically as you treat everybody, 
and he will be wounded at your indifference and go away.” 
But Giovanni did not go, and Corona began to wonder whether 
she ought not to do something to break the interest she felt in 
him. 

At the present moment she wanted a cup of tea. She would 
have liked to send Ugo del Ferice for it; she did what she 
thought least pleasant to herself, and she sent Giovanni. The 
servants who were serving the refreshments had all left the 
room, and Saracinesca went in pursuit of them. As soon as 
he was gone Del Ferice spoke. His voice was soft, and had an 
insinuating tone in it. 

They are saying that Don Giovanni is to be married,” he 
remarked, watching the Duchessa from the corners of his eyes 
as he indifferently delivered himself of his news. 

The Duchessa was too dark a woman to show emotion easily. 
Perhaps she did not believe the story; her eyes fixed them- 
selves on some distant object in the room, as though she were 
intensely interested in something she saw, and she paused be- 
fore she answered. 


SARACINESCA. 


17 


That is news indeed, if it is true. And whom is he going 
to marry ? 

“ Donna Tullia Mayer, the widow of the financier. She is 
immensely rich, and is some kind of cousin of the Saracinesca.” 

^^How strange! exclaimed Corona. I was just looking 
at her. Is not that she over there, with the green feathers ?” 

^^Yes,” answered Del Ferice, looking in the direction the 
Duchessa indicated. “ That is she. One may know her at a 
vast distance by her dress. But it is not all settled yet.^' 

Then one cannot congratulate Don Giovanni to-day ? 
asked the Duchessa, facing her interlocutor rather suddenly. 

‘‘No,” he answered; “it is perhaps better not to speak to 
him about it.” 

“ It is well that you warned me, for I would certainly have 
spoken.” 

“ I do not imagine that Saracinesca likes to talk of his 
affairs of the heart,” said Del Ferice, with considerable gravity. 
“ But here he comes. I had hoped he would have taken even 
longer to get that cup of tea.” 

“ It was long enough for you to tell your news,” answered 
Corona quietly, as Don Giovanni came up. 

“ What is the news ? ” asked he, as he sat down beside her. 

“ Only an engagement that is not yet announced,” answered 
the Duchessa. “Del Ferice has the secret; perhaps he will 
tell you.” 

Giovanni glanced across her at the fair pale man, whose fat 
face, however, expressed nothing. Seeing he was not enlight- 
ened, Saracinesca civilly turned the subject. 

“ Are you going to the meet to-morrow, Duchessa ? ” he 
asked. 

“ That depends upon the weather and upon the Duke,” she 
answered. “ Are you going to follow ? ” 

“ Of course. What a pity it is that you do not ride 1 ” 

“ It seems such an unnatural thing to see a woman hunting,” 
remarked Del Ferice, who remembered to have heard the 
Duchessa say something of the kind, and was consequently sure 
that she would agree with him. 

“ You do not ride yourself,” said Don Giovanni, shortly. 
“ That is the reason you do not approve of it for ladies.” 

“ I am not rich enough to hunt,” said Ugo, modestly. “Be- 
sides, the other reason is a good one; for when ladies hunt I 
am deprived of their society.” 

The Duchessa laughed slightly. She never felt less like 
laughing in her life, and yet it was necessary to encourage the 
conversation. Giovanni did not abandon the subject. 

“ It will be a beautiful meet,” he said. “ Many people are 


18 


SARACINESCA. 


going out for the first time this year. There is a man here 
who has brought his horses from England. I forget his name 
— a rich Englishman.^^ 

“ I have met him,” said Del Ferice, who was proud of know- 
ing everybody. “ He is a type — enormously rich — a lord — I 
cannot pronounce his name — not married either. He will 
make a sensation in society. He won races in Paris last year, 
and they say he will enter one of his hunters for the steeple- 
chases here at Easter.” 

That is a great inducement to go to the meet, to see this 
Englishman,” said the Duchessa rather wearily, as she leaned 
back in her chair. Griovanni was silent, but showed no inten- 
tion of going. Del Ferice, with an equal determination to 
stay, chattered vivaciously. 

Don Griovanni is quite right,” he continued. Every one 
is going. There will be two or three drags. Madame Mayer 
has induced Valdarno to have out his four-in-hand, and to 
take her and a large party.” 

The Duchessa did not hear the remainder of Del Fence’s 
speech, for at the mention of Donna Tullia — now commonly 
called Madame Mayer — she instinctively turned and looked at 
Giovanni. He, too, had caught the name, though he was not 
listening in the least to Ugo’s chatter; and as he met Corona’s 
eyes he moved uneasily, as much as to say he wished the fellow 
would stop talking. A moment later Del Ferice rose from his 
seat; he had seen Donna Tullia passing near, and thought the 
opportunity favourable for obtaining an invitation to join the 
party on the drag. With a murmured excuse which Corona 
did not hear, he went in pursuit of his game. 

I thought he was never going,” said Giovanni, moodily. 
He was not in the habit of posing as the rival of any one who 
happened to be talking to the Duchessa. He had never said 
anything of the kind before, and Corona experienced a new 
sensation, not altogether unpleasant. She looked at him in 
some surprise. 

Do you not like Del Ferice ? ” she inquired, gravely. 

Do you like him yourself ? ” he asked in reply. 

What a question! Why should I like or dislike any one?” 
There was perhaps the smallest shade of bitterness in her voice 
as she asked the question she had so often asked herself. 
Why should she like Giovanni Saracinesca, for instance ? 

I do not know what the world would be like if we had no 
likes and dislikes,” said Giovanni, suddenly. '' It would be a 
poor place; perhaps it is only a poor place at best. I merely 
wondered whether Del Ferice amused you as he amuses every- 
body.” 


SARACIKESCA. 


19 


‘‘ Well then, frankly, he has not amused me to-day,” answered 
Corona, with a smile. 

“ Then you are glad he is gone ? ” 

I do not regret it.” 

Duchessa,” said Giovanni, suddenly changing his position, 

I am glad he is gone, because I want to ask you a question. 
Do I know you well enough to ask you a question ? ” 

It depends ” Corona felt the blood rise suddenly to 

her dark forehead. Her hands burned intensely in her gloves. 
The anticipation of something she had never heard made her 
heart beat uncontrollably in her breast. 

‘‘It is only about myself,” continued Giovanni, in low tones. 
He had seen Ihe blush, so rare a sight that there was not 
another man in Eome who had seen it. He had not time to 
think what it meant. “ It is only about myself,” he went on. 
“ My father wants me to marry; he insists that I should marry 
Donna Tnllia — Madame Mayer.” 

“Well?” asked Corona. She shivered; a moment before, 
she had been oppressed with the heat. Her monosyllabic 
question was low and indistinct. She wondered whether 
Giovanni could hear the beatings of her heart, so slow, so 
loud they almost deafened her. 

“ Simply this. Do you advise me to marry her ? ” 

“Why do you ask me, of all people?” asked Corona, 
faintly. 

“ I would like to have your advice,” said Giovanni, twisting 
his brown hands together and fixing his bright eyes upon her 
face. 

“ She is young yet. She is handsome — she is fabulously 
rich. Why should you not marry her ? Would she make you 
happy ? ” 

“ Happy ? Happy with her ? No indeed. Do you think 
life would be bearable with such a woman ? ” 

“ I do not know. Many men would marry her if they 
could ” 

“ Then you think I should ? ” asked Giovanni. Corona 
hesitated; she could not understand why she should care, 
and yet she was conscious that there had been no such 
struggle in her life since the day she had blindly resolved 
to sacrifice herself to her father's wishes in accepting Astrar- 
dente. Still there could be no doubt what she should say: 
how could she advise any one to marry without the prospect of 
the happiness she had never had ? 

“ Will you not give me your counsel ? ” repeated Saracinesca. 
He had grown very pale, and spoke with such earnestness that 
Corona hesitated no longer. 


20 


SARACINESCA. 


I would certainly advise you to think no more about it, if 
you are sure that you cannot be happy with her/^ 

Giovanni drew a long breath, the blood returned to his face, 
and his hands unlocked themselves. 

I will think no more about it,^^ he said. Heaven bless 
you for your advice, Duchessa!^^ 

Heaven grant I have advised you well ! ” said Corona, 
almost inaudibly. “How cold this house is! Will you put 
down my cup of tea? Let us go near the fire; Strillone is 
going to sing again.^^ 

“ I would like him to sing a ^ Nunc dimittis, Domine,^ for 
me,^^ murmured Giovanni, whose eyes were filled with a strange 


light. 

Half an hour later Corona d^Astrardente went down the 
steps of the Embassy wrapped in her furs and preceded by her 
footman. As she reached the bottom Giovanni Saracinesca 
came swiftly down and joined her as her carriage drove up out 
of the dark courtyard. The footman opened the door, but 
Giovanni put out his hand to help Corona to mount the step. 
She laid her small gloved fingers upon the sleeve of his 
overcoat, and as she sprang lightly in she thought his arm 
trembled. 

“ Good night, Duchessa; I am very grateful to you,’^ he 
said. 

“ Good night ; why should you be grateful ? she asked, 
almost sadly. 

Giovanni did not answer, but stood hat in hand as the great 
carriage rolled out under the arch. Then he buttoned his 
greatcoat, and went out alone into the dark and muddy streets. 
The rain had ceased, but everything was wet, and the broad 
pavements gleamed under the uncertain light of the dickering 
gas-lamps. 


CHAPTER III. 

The palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of 
Rome, far removed from the broad white streets of mushroom 
dwelling-houses and machine-laid macadam; far from the 
foreigners' region, the varnish of the fashionable shops, the 
whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream of the newsvendor. 
The vast irregular buildings are built around three courtyards, 
and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first sixteen 
feet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, 
consist of great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored 
along their length by the battering of ages, by the heavy carts 


SARACINESCA. 


21 


that from time immemorial have found the way too narrow and 
have ground their iron axles against the massive masonry. Of 
the three enormous arched gates that give access to the interior 
from different sides, one is closed by an iron grating, another 
by huge doors studded with iron bolts, and the third alone is 
usually open as an entrance. A tall old porter used to stand 
there in a long livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on holidays he 
appeared in the traditional garb of the Parisian Suisse,"" 
magnificent in silk stockings and a heavily laced coat of dark 
green, leaning upon his tall mace— a constant object of wonder 
to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed his white beard 
in imitation of his master"s — broad and square — and his words 
were few and to the point. 

No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those 
days; there were no ladies in the house; it was a man"s estab- 
lishment, and there was something severely masculine in the 
air of the gloomy courtyards surrounded by dark archways, 
where not a single plant or bit of colour relieved the ancient 
stone. The pavement was clean and well kept, a new flagstone 
here and there showing that some care was bestowed upon 
maintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration there 
was to be found in the courts, the place might have been a 
fortress, as indeed it once was. The owners, father and son, 
lived in their ancestral home in a sort of solemn magnificence 
that savoured of feudal times. Giovanni was the only son of 
five-and-twenty years of wedlock. His mother had been older 
than his father, and had now been dead some time. She had 
been a stern dark woman, and had lent no feminine touch of 
grace to the palace while she lived in it, her melancholic temper 
rather rejoicing in the sepulchral gloom that hung over the 
house. The Saracinesca had always been a manly race, pre- 
ferring strength to beauty, and the reality of power to the 
amenities of comfort. 

Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the 
Embassy. His temper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of 
the cold streets, and he did not hurry himself. He intended 
to dine at home that evening, and he anticipated some kind of 
disagreement with his father. The two men were too much 
alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to care 
for eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that 
there would be a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind 
not to marry Madame Mayer, and his father was equally deter- 
mined that he should marry her at once: both were singularly 
strong men, singularly tenacious of their opinions. 

At precisely seven o"clock father and son entered from differ- 
ent doors the small sitting-room in which they generally met, 


22 


SAEACIN-ESCA. 


and they had no sooner entered than dinner was announced. 
Two words might suffice for the description of old Prince 
Saracinesca — he was an elder edition of his son. Sixty years 
of life had not bent his strong frame nor dimmed the brilliancy 
of his eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy white. He was 
broader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, 
but of the same height, and well proportioned still, with little 
tendency to stoutness. He was to all appearance precisely 
what his son would be at his age — keen and vigorous, the stern 
lines of his face grown deeper, and his very dark eyes and com- 
plexion made more noticeable by the dazzling whiteness of his 
hair and broad square beard — the same type in a different stage 
of development. 

The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnifi- 
cence which has grown rare in Eome. There was old plate and 
old china upon the table, old cut glass of the diamond pattern, 
and an old butler who moved noiselessly about in the perform- 
ance of the functions he had exercised in the same room for 
forty years, and which his father had exercised there before 
him. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite 
sides of the round table, now and then exchanging a few 
words. 

“I was caught in the rain ihis afternoon,” remarked the 
Prince. 

I hope you will not have a cold,” replied his son, civilly. 

Why do you walk in such weather ? ” 

And you — why do you walk ? ” retorted his father. “ Are 
you less likely to take cold than I am? I walk because I have 
always walked.” 

That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep 
a carriage.” 

^‘Why do not you keep one if you wish to?” asked the 
Prince. 

“ I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to-morrow, 
lest I should again walk in the rain and catch cold. Where 
did you see me on foot ? ” 

In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my 
wishes in that absurd way?” 

“ Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so,” said Giovanni, 
quietly. 

You are always contradicting me,” said the Prince. " Some 
wine, Pasquale.” 

Contradicting you ? ” repeated Giovanni. Nothing could 
be further from my intentions.” 

The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he 
answered. 


SARACIl^ESCA. 


23 


‘‘ Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself and 
live like a gentleman he asked at length. You are rich- 
why do you go about on foot and dine in caf6s ? ” 

‘‘ Do I ever dine at a cafe when you are dining alone ? 

"‘You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris,” 
retorted his father. “It is a bad habit. What was the use of 
your mother leaving you a fortune, unless you will live in a 
proper fashion?” 

“ I understand you very well,” answered Giovanni, his dark 
eyes beginning to gleam. “ You know all that is a pretence. 
I am the most home-staying man of your acquaintance. It is 
a mere pretence. You are going to talk about my marriage 
again.” 

“ And has any one a more natural right to insist upon your 
marriage than I have ? ” asked the elder man, hotly. “ Leave 
the wine on the table, Pasquale — and the fruit — here. Give 
Don Giovanni his cheese. I will ring for the coffee — leave us.” 
The butler and the footman left the room. “Has any one a 
more natural right, I ask?” repeated the Prince when they 
were alone. 

“No one but mvself, I should say,” answered Giovanni, 
bitterly. 

“ Yourself — yourself indeed ! What have you to say about 
it ? This is a family matter. Would you have Saracinesca 
sold, to be distributed piecemeal among a herd of dogs of 
starving relations you never heard of, merely because you are 
such a vagabond, such a Bohemian, such a break-neck, crazy 
good-for-nothing, that you will not take the trouble to accept 
one of all the women who rush into your arms?” 

“ Your affectionate manner of speaking of your relatives is 
only surpassed by your good taste in describing the probabili- 
ties of my marriage,” remarked Giovanni, scornfully. 

“ And you say you never contradict me ! ” exclaimed the 
Prince, angrily. 

“ If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment is not 
contradiction.” 

“ Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused to 
marry ?” inquired old Saracinesca. 

“ That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, and I 
will refuse, just so long as it pleases me.” 

“ That is definite, at all events. You will go on refusing 
until you have broken your silly neck in imitating Englishmen, 
and then — good night, Saracinesca! The last of the family 
will have come to a noble end! ” 

“ If the only use of my existence is to become the father of 
heirs, to your titles, I do not care to enjoy them myself.” 


24 


SAEACIKESCA. 


You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. Did 
you ever reflect that I might marry again ? 

If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. 
Madame Mayer will accept you as soon as me. Marry by all 
means, and may you have a numerous progeny; and may they 
all marry in their turn, the day they are twenty. I wish you 

joy-'' 

" You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you would 
have more respect for Donna Tullia 

“ Than to call her Madame Mayer,^^ interrupted Giovanni. 

“ Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a title and 
a fortune 

You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when you 
suggested that she was ready to rush into my arms.” 

‘‘ I ! I never said such a thing. I said that any woman ” 

Including Madame Mayer, of course,” interrupted Gio- 
vanni again. 

“Can you not let me speak?” roared the Prince. Gio- 
vanni shrugged his shoulders a little, poured out a glass of 
wine, and helped himself to cheese, but said nothing. Seeing 
that his son said nothing, old Saracinesca was silent too; he 
was so angry that he had lost the thread of his ideas. Per- 
haps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome tone he had taken, for 
he presently spoke to his father in a more conciliatory tone. 

“ Let us be just,” he said. “ I will listen to you, and I shall 
be glad if you will listen to me. In the first place, when I 
think of marriage I represent something to myself by the 
term ” 

“ I hope so,” growled the old man. 

“ I look upon marriage as an important step in a man’s life. 
I am not so old as to make my marriage an immediate neces- 
sity, nor so young as to be able wholly to disregard it. I do 
not desire to be hurried ; for when I make up my mind, I in- 
tend to make a choice which, if it does not ensure happiness, 
will at least ensure peace. I do not wish to marry Madame 
Mayer. She is young, handsome, rich ” 

“ Very,” ejaculated the Prince. 

“Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome.” 

“ Certainly not handsome,” said his father, who was nursing 
his wrath, and meanwhile spoke calmly. “ You are the image 
of me.” 

“ I am proud of the likeness,” said Giovanni, gravely. “ But 
to return to Madame Mayer. She is a widow ” 

“ Is that her fault ? ” inquired his father irrelevantly, his 
anger rising again. 

“ I trust not,” said Giovanni, with a smile. “ I trust she did 


SAEACU^TESCA. 


25 


not murder old Mayer. Nevertheless she is a widow. That is 
a strong objection. Have any of my ancestors married 
widows ? ” 

You show your ignorance at every turn/^ said the old 
Prince, with a scornful laugh. “ Leone Saracinesca married 
the widow of the Elector of Limburger-Stinkenstein in 1581.” 

“ It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives 
you your taste for argument,” remarked Giovanni. “ Because 
three hundred years ago an ancestor married a widow, I am to 
marry one now. Wait — do not be angry — there are other 
reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer. She is too gay 
for me — too fond of the world.” 

The Prince burst into a loud ironical laugh. His white 
hair and beard bristled about his dark face, and he showed all 
his teeth, strong and white still. 

‘^That is magnificent!” he cried; ^‘it is superb, splendid, a 
piece of unpurchasable humour ! Giovanni Saracinesca has 
found a woman who is too gay for him ! Heaven be praised I 
We know his taste at last. We will give him a nun, a miracle 
of all the virtues, a little girl out of a convent, vowed to a life 
of sacrifice and self-renunciation. That will please him — he 
will be a model happy husband.” 

“ I do not understand this extraordinary outburst,” answered 
Giovanni, with cold scorn. Your mirth is amazing, but I 
fail to understand its source.” 

His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his 
heavy brows bending with the intenseness of his gaze. Gio- 
vanni returned the look, and it seemed as though those two 
strong angry men were fencing across the table with their fiery 
glances. The son was the first to speak. 

Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to 
be allowed to marry a young girl ? ” he asked, not taking his 
eyes from his father. 

“ Look you, boy,” returned the Prince, “ I will have no more 
nonsense. I insist upon this match, as I have told you before. 
It is the most suitable one that I can find for you ; and instead 
of being grateful, you turn upon me and refuse to do your 
duty. Donna Tullia is twenty-three years of age. She is 
brilliant, rich. There is nothing against her. She is a distant 
cousin ” 

“ One of the fiock of vultures you so tenderly referred to,” 
remarked Giovanni. 

Silence ! ” cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand 
upon the table so that the glasses shook together. I will be 
heard; and what is more, I will be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a 
relation. The union of two such fortunes will be of immense 


26 


SARACINESCA. 


advantage to your children. There is everything in favour of 
the match — nothing against it. You shall marry her a month 
from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant’ Ilario, with the 
estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to 
live in, if you do not care to live here.” 

“ And if I refuse ? ” asked Giovanni, choking down his anger. 

“ If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from 
to-day,” said the Prince, savagely. 

“ Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, in 
setting up an establishment for myself and living like a gentle- 
man,” returned Giovanni, with a bitter laugh. It is nothing 
to me — if you turn me out. I am rich, as you justly ob- 
served.” 

You will have the more leisure to lead the life you like 
best,” retorted the Prince ; to hang about in society, to go 

where you please, to make love to ” the old man stopped 

a moment. His son was watching him fiercely, his hand 
clenched upon the table, his face as white as death. 

“ To whom ? ” he asked, with a terrible effort to be calm. 

Do you think I am afraid of you ? Do you think your 
father is less strong or less fierce than you ? To whom ? ” cried 
the angry old man, his whole pent-up fury bursting out as he 
rose suddenly to his feet. To whom but to Corona d’Astrar- 
dente — to whom else should you make love ? — wasting your 
youth and life upon a mad passion ! All Rome says it — I will 
say it too ! ” 

‘‘ You have said it indeed,” answered Giovanni, in a very 
low voice. He remained seated at the table, not moving a 
muscle, his face as the face of the dead. “ You have said it, 
and in insulting that lady you have said a thing not worthy 
for one of our blood to say. God help me to remember that 
you are my father,” he added, trembling suddenly. 

Hold ! ” said the Prince, who, with all his ambition for his 
son, and his hasty temper, was an honest gentleman. I never 
insulted her — she is above suspicion. It is you who are wast- 
ing your life in a hopeless passion for her. See, I speak 
calmly ” 

“ What does ^ all Rome say ’ ? ” asked Giovanni, interrupt- 
ing him. He was still deadly pale, but his hand was un- 
clenched, and as he spoke he rested his head upon it, looking 
down at the tablecloth. 

Everybody says that you are in love with the Astrardente, 
and that her husband is beginning to notice it.” 

It is enough, sir,” said Giovanni, in low tones. “ I will 
consider this marriage you propose. Give me until the spring 
to decide.” 


SARACINESCA. 


27 


That is a long time,” remarked the old Prince, resuming 
his seat and beginning to peel an orange, as though nothing 
had happened. He was far from being calm, but his son’s 
sudden change of manner had disarmed his anger. He was 
passionate and impetuous, thoughtless in his language, and 
tyrannical in his determination; but he loved Giovanni dearly 
for all that. 

I do not think it long,” said Giovanni, thoughtfully. I 
give you my word that I will seriously consider the marriage. 
If it is possible for me to marry Donna Tullia, I will obey you, 
and I will give you my answer before Easter-day. I cannot do 
more.” 

I sincerely hope you will take my advice,” answered Sara- 
cinesca, now entirely pacified. “If you cannot make up your 
mind to the match, 1 may be able to find something else. 
There is Bianca Valdarno — she will have a quarter of the 
estate.” 

“ She is so very ugly,” objected Giovanni, quietly. He was 
still much agitated, but he answered his father mechanically. 

“ That is true — they are all ugly, those Valdarni. Besides, 
they are of Tuscan origin. What do you say to the little Eocca 
girl ? She has great chic; she was brought up in England. 
She is pretty enough.” 

“ I am afraid she would be extravagant.” 

“She could spend her own money then; it will be sufficient.” 

“ It is better to be on the safe side,” said Giovanni. Sud- 
denly he changed his position, and again looked at his father. 
“ I am sorry we always quarrel about this question,” he said. 
“ I do not really want to marry, but I wish to oblige you, and I 
will try. Why do we always come to words over it ? ” 

“ I am sure I do not know,” said the Prince, with a pleasant 
smile. “I have such a diabolical temper, I suppose.” 

“ And I have inherited it,” answered Don Giovanni, with a 
laugh that was meant to be cheerful. “ But I quite see your 
point of view. I suppose I ought to settle in life by this time.” 

“ Seriously, I think so, my son. Here is to jour future 
happiness,” said the old gentleman, touching his glass with his 
lips. 

“ And here is to our future peace,” returned Giovanni, also 
drinking. 

“ We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we ?” said his father. 
Every trace of anger had vanished. His strong face beamed 
with an affectionate smile that was like the sun after a thun- 
derstorm. 

“ Ho, indeed,” answered his son, cordially. “ We cannot 
afford to quarrel; there are only two of us left.” 


28 


SAKACINESCA. 


“ That is what I always say/^ assented the Prince, beginning 
to eat the orange he had carefully peeled since he had grown 
calm. If two men like you and me, my boy, can thoroughly 
agree, there is nothing we cannot accomplish; whereas if we 
go against each other ” 

“ Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet,” suggested Giovanni, in 
parody of the proverb. 

‘‘ I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovannino,^^ said the old 
gentleman. 

Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done.” 

“No; one is never just when one is angry. But storms 
clear the sky, as they say up at Saracinesca.” 

“ By the bye, have you heard whether that question of the 
timber has been settled yet ? ” asked Giovanni. 

“ Of course — I had forgotten. I will tell you all about it,” 
answered his father, cheerfully. So they chatted peacefully 
for another half-hour; and no one would have thought, in 
looking at them, that such fierce passions had been roused, nor 
that one of them felt as though his death-warrant had been 
signed. AVhen they separated, Giovanni went to his own 
rooms, and locked himself in. 

He had assumed an air of calmness which was not real before 
he left his father. In truth he was violently agitated. He was 
as fiery as his father, but his passions were of greater strength 
and of longer duration ; for his mother had been a Spaniard, 
and something of the melancholy of her country had entered 
into his soul, giving depth and durability to the hot Italian 
character he inherited from his father. Nor did the latter sus- 
pect the cause of his son^s sudden change of tone in regard to 
the marriage. It was precisely the difference in temperament 
which made Giovanni incomprehensible to the old Prince. 

Giovanni had realised for more than a year past that he 
loved Corona d'Astrardente. Contrary to the custom of young 
men in his position, he determined from the first that he would 
never let her know it; and herein lay the key to all his actions. 
He had, as he thought, made a point of behaving to her on all 
occasions as he behaved to the other women he met in the 
world, and he believed that he had skilfully concealed his pas- 
sion from the world and from the woman he loved. He had 
acted on all occasions with a circumspection which was not 
natural to him, and for which he undeniably deserved great 
credit. It had been a year of constant struggles, constant 
efforts at self-control, constant determination that, if possible, 
he would overcome his instincts. It was true that, when occa- 
sion offered, he had permitted himself the pleasure of talking 
to Corona d^Astrardente — talking, he well knew, upon the most 


SARACINESCA. 


29 


general subjects, but finding at each interview some new point 
of sympathy. Never, he could honestly say, had he approaches 
in that time the subject of love, nor even the equally dangero 
topic of friendship, the discussion of which leads to so mp 
ruinous experiments. He had never by look or word sought 
to interest the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in himself; he 
had talked of books, of politics, of social questions, but never 
of himself nor of herself. He had faithfully kept the promise 
he had made in his heart, that since he was so unfortunate as 
to love the wife of another — a woman of such nobility that 
even in Rome no breath had been breathed against her — he 
would keep his unfortunate passion to himself. Astrardente 
was old, almost decrepit, in spite of his magnificent wig; Corona 
was but two-and-twenty years of age. If ever her husband 
died, Giovanni would present himself before the world as her 
suitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to injure her self- 
respect nor to disturb her peace — he hardly flattered himself 
he could do that, for he loved her truly — and above all, he 
would do nothing to compromise the unsullied reputation she 
enjoyed. She might never love him; but he was strong and 
patient, and would do her the only honour it was in his power 
to do her, by waiting patiently. 

But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most con- 
spicuous man in society; that there were many who watched 
his movements, in hopes he would come their way; that when 
he entered a room, many had noticed that, though he never 
went directly to Coronals side, he always looked first towards 
her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of an 
evening. Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about 
the eagle’s nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance 
on Giovanni’s face when he did not succeed in being alone by 
Corona’s side for at least a few minutes ; and Del Ferice, who 
was a sort of news-carrier in Rome, had now and then hinted 
that Giovanni was in love. People had repeated his hints, as 
he intended they should, with the illuminating wit peculiar to 
tale-bearers, and the story had gone abroad accordingly. True, 
there was not a man in Rome bold enough to allude to the 
matter in Giovanni’s presence, even if any one had seen any 
advantage in so doing; but such things do not remain hidden. 
His own father had told him in a fit of anger, and the blow had 
produced its effect. 

Giovanni sat down in a deep easy-chair in his own room, and 
thought over the situation. His first impulse had been to be 
furiously angry with his father; but the latter having instantly 
explained that there was nothing to be said against the Du- 
chessa, Giovanni’s anger against the Prince had turned against 


30 


SARACINESCA. 


himself. It was bitter to think that all his self-denial, all his 
many and prolonged efforts to conceal his love, had been of no 
avail. He cursed his folly and imprudence, while wondering 
how it was possible that the story should have got abroad. He 
did not waver in his determination to hide his inclinations, to 
destroy the impression he had so unwillingly produced. The 
first means he found in his way seemed the best. To marry 
Donna Tullia at once, before the story of his affection for the 
Duchessa had gathered force, would, he thought, effectually 
shut the mouths of the gossips. From one point of view it 
was a noble thought, the determination to sacrifice himself 
wholly and for ever, rather than permit his name to be men- 
tioned ever so innocently in connection with the woman he 
loved; to root out utterly his love for her by seriously engaging 
his faith to another, and keeping that engagement with all 
the strength of fidelity he knew himself to possess. He 
would save Corona from annoyance, and her name from the 
scandal-mongers; and if any one ever dared to mention the 
story 

Giovanni rose to his feet and mechanically took a fencing- 
foil from the wall, as he often did for practice. If any one 
mentioned the story, he thought, he had the means to silence 
them, quickly and for ever. His eyes flashed suddenly at the 
idea of action — any action, even fighting, which might be dis- 
tantly connected with Corona. Then he tossed down the 
rapier and threw himself into his chair, and sat quite still, 
staring at the trophies of armour upon the wall opposite. 

He could not do it. To wrong one woman for the sake of 
shielding another was not in his power. People might laugh 
at him and call him Quixotic, forsooth, because he would not 
do like every one else and make a marriage of convenience — of 
propriety. Propriety! when his heart was breaking within 
him; when every fibre of his strong frame quivered with the 
strain of passion; when his aching eyes saw only one face, and 
his ears echoed the words she had spoken that very afternoon ! 
Propriety indeed ! Propriety was good enough for cold-blooded 
dullards. Donna Tullia had done him no harm that he should 
marry her for propriety's sake, and make her life miserable for 
thirty, forty, fifty years. It would be propriety rather for him 
to go away, to bury himself in the ends of the earth, until he 
could forget Corona d'Astrardente, her splendid eyes, and her 
deep sweet voice. 

He had pledged his father his word that he would consider 
the marriage, and he was to give his answer before Easter. 
That was a long time yet. He would consider it; and if by 
Eastertide he had forgotten Corona, he would he laughed 


SAKACIN’ESCA. 


31 


aloud in his silent room, and the sound of his voice startled 
him from his reverie. 

Forget ? Did such men as he forget ? Other men did. 
What were they made of? They did not love such women, 
perhaps; that was the reason they forgot. Any one could for- 
get poor Donna Tullia. And yet how was it possible to forget 
if one loved truly ? 

Giovanni had never believed himself in love before. He had 
known one or two women who had attracted him strongly; but 
he had soon found out that he had no real sympathy with 
them, that though they amused him they had no charm for 
him — most of all, that he could not imagine himself tied to 
any one of them for life without conceiving the situation hor- 
rible in the extreme. To his independent nature the idea of 
such ties was repugnant: he knew himself too courteous to 
break through the civilities of life with a wife he did not love; 
but he knew also that in marrying a woman who was indif- 
ferent to him, he would be engaging to play a part for life in 
the most fearful of all plays — the part of a man who strives to 
bear bravely the galling of a chain he is too honourable to 
break. 

It was four o'clock in the morning when Giovanni went to 
bed; and even then he slept little, for his dreams were dis- 
turbed. Once he thought he stood upon a green lawn with a 
sword in his hand, and the blood upon its point, his opponent 
lying at his feet. Again, he thought he was alone in a vast 
drawing-room, and a dark woman came and spoke gently to 
him, saying, ‘‘ Marry her for my sake." He awoke with a 
groan. The church clocks were striking eight, and the meet 
was at eleven, five miles beyond the Porta Pia. Giovanni 
started up and rang for his servant. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was a beautiful day, and half Rome turned out to see the 
meet, not because it was in any way different from other meets, 
but because it chanced that society had a fancy to attend it. 
Society is very like a fever patient in a delirium ; it is rarely 
accountable for its actions; it scarcely ever knows what it is 
saying; and occasionally, without the least warning or premedi- 
tation, it leaps out of bed at an early hour of the morning and 
rushes frantically in pursuit of its last hallucination. The 
main difference is, that whereas a man in a fever has a nurse, 
society has none. 

On the present occasion every one had suddenly conceived 


32 


SARACIKESCA. 


the idea of going to the meet, and the long road beyond the 
Porta Pia was dotted for miles with equipages of every descrip- 
tion, from the fonr-in-hand of Prince Valdarno to the humble 
donkey-cart of the caterer who sells messes of boiled beans, and 
bread and cheese, and salad to the grooms — an institution not 
connected in the English mind with hunting. One after an- 
other the vehicles rolled out along the road, past SanP Agnese, 
down the hill and across the Ponte Nomentana, and far up 
beyond to a place where three roads met and there was a broad 
open stretch of wet, withered grass. Here the carriages turned 
in and ranged themselves side by side, as though they were 
pausing in the afternoon drive upon the Pincio, instead of 
being five miles out upon the broad Campagna. 

To describe the mountains to southward of Pome would be 
an insult to nature; to describe a meet would be an affront to 
civilised readers of the English language. The one is too 
familiar to everybody; the pretty crowd of men and women, 
dotted with pink and set off by the neutral colour of the winter 
fields; the hunters of all ages, and sizes, and breeds, led slowly 
up and down by the grooms; while from time to time some 
rider gets into the saddle and makes himself comfortable, 
assures himself of girth and stirrup, and of the proper dis- 
posal of the sandwich-box and sherry-fiask, gives a final word 
of instruction to his groom, and then moves slowly off. A 
Eoman meet is a little less business-like than the same thing 
elsewhere; there is a little more dawdling, a little more conver- 
sation when many ladies chance to have come to see the hounds 
throw off; otherwise it is not different from other meets. As 
for the Eoman mountains, they are so totally unlike any other 
hills in the world, and so extremely beautiful in their own 
peculiar way, that to describe them would be an idle and a use- 
less task, which could only serve to exhibit the vanity of the 
writer and the feebleness of his pen. 

Don Giovanni arrived early in spite of his sleepless night. 
He descended from his dogcart by the roadside, instead of 
driving into the field, and he took a careful survey of the car- 
riages he saw before him. Conspicuous in the distance he 
distinguished Donna Tullia Mayer standing among a little 
crowd of men near Valdarno’s drag. She was easily known by 
her dress, as Del Ferice had remarked on the previous evening. 
On this occasion she wore a costume in which the principal 
colours were green and yellow, an enormous hat, with feathers 
in the same proportion surmounting her head, and she carried 
a yellow parasol. She was a rather handsome woman of middle 
height, with unnaturally blond hair, and a fairly good com- 
pletion^ which as yet she had wisely abstained from attempting 


SARACINESCA. 


33 


to improve by artificial means; her eyes were blue, but uncer- 
tain in their glance— of the kind which do not inspire confi- 
dence; and her mouth was much admired, being small and red, 
with full lips. She was rapid in her movements, and she spoke 
in a loud voice, easily collecting people about her wherever 
there were any to collect. Her conversation was not brilliant, 
but it was so abundant that its noisy vivacity passed current 
for cleverness; she had a remarkably keen judgment of people, 
and a remarkably bad taste in her opinions of things artistic, 
from beauty in nature to beauty in dress, but she maintained 
her point of view obstinately, and admitted no contradiction. 
It was a singular circumstance that whereas many of her attri- 
butes were distinctly vulgar, she nevertheless had an indescrib- 
able air of good breeding, the strange inimitable stamp of social 
superiority which cannot be acquired by any known process of 
education. A person seeing her might be surprised at her 
loud talking, amused at her eccentricities of dress, and shocked 
at her bold manner, but no one would ever think of classing 
her anywhere save in what calls itself “ the best society.’^ 
Among the men who stood talking to Donna Tullia was the 
inevitable Del Ferice, a man of whom it might be said that he 
was never missed, because he was always present. Giovanni 
disliked Del Ferice without being able to define his aversion. 
He disliked generally men whom he suspected of duplicity; 
and he had no reason for supposing that truth, looking into 
her mirror, would have seen there the image of IJgo^s fat pale 
face and colourless moustache. But if Ugo was a liar, he must 
have had a good memory, for he never got himself into trouble, 
and he had the reputation of being a useful member of society, 
an honour to which persons of doubtful veracity rarely attain. 
Giovanni, however, disliked him, and suspected him of many 
things; and although he had intended to go up to Donna 
Tullia, the sight of Del Ferice at her side very nearly prevented 
him. He strolled leisurely down the little slope, and as he 
neared the crowd, spoke to one or two acquaintances, mentally 
determining to avoid Madame Mayer, and to mount immedi- 
ately. But he was disappointed in his intention. As he stood 
for a moment beside the carriage of the March esa Rocca, ex- 
changing a few words with her, and looking with some interest 
at her daughter, the little Rocca girl whom his father had 
proposed as a possible wife for him, he forgot his proximity 
to the lady he wished to avoid; and when, a few seconds 
later, he proceeded in the direction of his horse, Madame 
Mayer stepped forward from the knot of her admirers and 
tapped him familiarly upon the shoulder with the handle of 
her parasol. 


34 


SARACINESCA. 


So you were not going to speak to me to-day ? she said 
rather roughly, after her manner. 

Giovanni turned sharply and faced her, bowing low. Donna 
Tullia laughed. 

Is there anything so amazingly ridiculous in my appear- 
ance ? he asked. 

Altro ! when you make that tremendous salute 

It was intended to convey an apology as well as a greeting,” 
answered Don Giovanni, politely. 

I would like more apology and less greeting.” 

I am ready to apologise ” 

Humbly, without defending yourself,” said Donna Tullia, 
beginning to walk slowly forward. Giovanni was obliged to 
follow her. 

^^My defence is, nevertheless, a very good one,” he said. 

Well, if it is really good, I may listen to it; but you will 
not make me believe that you intended to behave properly.” 

I am in a very had humour. I would not inflict my cross 
temper upon you; therefore I avoided you.” 

Donna Tullia eyed him attentively. When she answered she 
drew in her small red lips with an air of annoyance. 

^^You look as though you were in bad humour,” she an- 
swered. “ I am sorry I disturbed you. It is better to leave 
sleeping dogs alone, as the proverb says.” 

I have not snapped yet,” said Giovanni. “ I am not dan- 
gerous, I assure you.” 

Oh, I am not in the least afraid of you,” replied his com- 
panion, with a little scorn. Do not flatter yourself your little 
humours frighten me. I suppose you intend to follow ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Saracinesca, shortly; he was beginning to 
weary of Donna Tullia^s manner of taking him to task. 

“You had much better come with us, and leave the poor 
foxes alone. Valdarno is going to drive us round by the cross- 
roads to the Capannelle. We will have a picnic lunch, and be 
home before three oYlock.” 

“ Thanks very much. I cannot let my horse shirk his work. 
I must beg you to excuse me 

“ Again ? ” exclaimed Donna Tullia. “ You are always mak- 
ing excuses.” Then she suddenly changed her tone, and looked 
down. “I wish you would come with us,” she said, gently. 
“ It is not often I ask you to do anything.” 

Giovanni looked at her quickly. He knew that Donna Tullia 
wished to marry him; he even suspected that his father had 
discussed the matter with her — no uncommon occurrence when 
a marriage has to be arranged with a widow. But he did not 
know that Donna Tullia was in love with him in her own odd 


SAHACINESCA. 


35 


fashion. He looked at her, and he saw that as she spoke there 
were tears of vexation in her bold blue eyes. He hesitated a 
moment, but natural courtesy won the day. 

I will go with you,’’ he said, quietly. A blush of pleasure 
rose to Madame Mayer’s pink cheeks; she felt she had made a 
point, but she was not willing to show her satisfaction. 

You say it as though you were conferring a favour,” she 
said, with a show of annoyance, which was belied by the happy 
expression of her face. 

‘‘Pardon me; I myself am the favoured person,” replied 
Giovanni, mechanically. .He had yielded because he did not 
know how to refuse; but he already regretted it, and would 
have given much to escape from the party. 

“You do not look as though you believed it,” said Donna 
Tullia, eyeing him critically. “If you are going to be dis- 
agreeable, I release you.” She said this well knowing, the 
while, that he would not accept of his liberty. 

“ If you are so ready to release me, as you call it, you do not 
really want me,” said her companion. Donna Tullia bit her 
lip, and there Avas a moment’s pause. “ If you will excuse me 
a moment I will send my horse home — I will join you at once.” 

“ There is your horse — right before us,” said Madame Mayer. 
Even that short respite was not allowed him, and she waited 
while Don Giovanni ordered the astonished groom to take his 
hunter for an hour’s exercise in a direction where he would not 
fall in with the hounds. 

“I did not believe you would really do it,” said Donna 
Tullia, as the two turned and sauntered back towards the car- 
riages. Most of the men who meant to follow had already 
mounted, and the little crowd had thinned considerably. But 
while they had been talking another carriage had driven into 
the field, and had halted a few yards from Valdarno’s drag. 
Astrardente had taken it into his head to come to the meet 
with his wife, and they had arrived late. Astrardente always 
arrived a little late, on principle. As Giovanni and Donna 
Tullia came back to their drag, they suddenly found them- 
selves face to face with the Duchessa and her husband. It did 
not surprise Corona to see Giovanni walking with the woman 
he did not intend to marry, hut it seemed to give the old Duke 
undisguised pleasure. 

“ Do you see. Corona, there is no doubt of it ! It is just as I 
told you,” exclaimed the aged dandy, in a voice so audible that 
Giovanni frowned and Donna Tullia blushed slightly. Both 
of them bowed as they passed the carriage. Don Giovanni 
looked straight into Corona’s face as he took otf his hat. He 
might very well have made her a little sign, the smallest ges- 


36 


SAEACIiTESCA. 


tnre, imperceptible to Donna Tnllia, whereby he could have 
given her the idea that his position was involuntary. But Don 
Giovanni was a gentleman, and he did nothing of the kind; he 
bowed and looked calmly at the woman he loved as he passed 
by. Astrardente watched him keenly, and as he noticed the 
inditference of Saracinesca^s look, he gave a curious little snuf- 
fling snort that was peculiar to him. He could have sworn that 
neither his wife nor Giovanni had shown the smallest interest 
in each other. He was satisfied. His wife was above suspi- 
cion, as he always said; but he v/as an old man, and had seen 
the world, and he knew that however implicitly he might trust 
the noble woman who had sacrificed her youth to his old age, 
it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that she might be- 
come innocently interested, even unawares, in some younger 
man — in some such man as Giovanni Saracinesca — and he 
thought it worth his while to watch her. His little snort, 
however, was indicative of satisfaction. Corona had not winced 
at the mention of the marriage, and had nodded with the 
greatest unconcern to the man as he passed. 

‘^Ah, Donna Tullia! he cried, as he returned their greeting, 
‘^-you are preventing Don Giovanni from mounting; the riders 
wifi be off in a moment.^^ 

Being thus directly addressed, there was nothing to be done 
but to stop and exchange a few words. The Duchessa was on 
the side nearest to the pair as they passed, and her hus- 
band rose and sat opposite her, so as to talk more at his ease. 
There were renewed greetings on both sides, and Giovanni 
naturally found himself talking to Corona, while her husband 
and Donna Tullia conversed together. 

What man could think of hunting when he could be talk- 
ing to you instead ? ” said old Astrardente, whose painted face 
adjusted itself in a sort of leer that had once been a winning 
smile. Every one knew he painted, his teeth were a miracle 
of American dentistry, and his wig had deceived a great por- 
trait-painter. The padding in his clothes was disposed with 
cunning wisdom, and in public he rarely removed the gloves 
from his small hands. Donna Tullia laughed at what he said. 

You should teach Don Giovanni to make pretty speeches,"^ 
she said. “ He is as surly as a wolf this morning.” 

“ I should think a man in his position would not need much 
teaching in order to be gallant to you,” replied the old dandy, 
with a knowing look. Then lowering his voice, he added con- 
fidentially, I hope that before very long I may be allowed to 
congrat 

'' I have prevailed upon him to give up following the hounds 
to-day,” interrupted Donna Tullia, quickly. She spoke loud 


SARACIKESCA. 


37 


enough to be noticed by Corona. " He is coming with ns to 
picnic at the Capannelle instead.^^ 

Griovanni could not help glancing quickly at Corona. She 
smiled faintly, and her face betrayed no emotion. 

I daresay it will be very pleasanV^ she said gently, looking 
far out over the Campagna. In the next field the pack was 
moving away, followed at a little distance by a score of riders 
in pink ; one or two men who had stayed behind in conversa- 
tion, mounted hastily and rode after the hunt ; some of the 
carriages turned out of the field and began to follow slowly 
along the road, in hopes of seeing the hounds throw off ; the 
party who were going with Valdarno gathered about the drag, 
waiting for Donna Tullia; the grooms who were left behind 
congregated around the men who sold boiled beans and salad ; 
and in a few minutes the meet had practically dispersed. 

^^Why will you not join us, Duchessa?"'* asked Madame 
Mayer. There is lunch enough for everybody, and the more 
people we are the pleasanter it will be.^’ Donna Tullia made 
her suggestion with her usual frank manner, fixing her blue 
eyes upon Corona as she spoke. There was every appearance 
of cordiality in the invitation; but Donna Tullia knew well 
enough that there was a sting in her words, or at all events 
that she meant there should be. Corona, however, glanced 
quietly at her husband, and then courteously refused. 

You are most kind,^^ she said, but I fear we cannot join 
you to-day. We are very regular people,” she explained, with 
a slight smile, “ and we are not prepared to go to-day. Many 
thanks ; I wish we could accept your kind invitation.” 

Well, I am sorry you will not come,” said Donna Tullia, 
with a rather hard laugh. ^^We mean to enjoy ourselves 
immensely.” 

Giovanni said nothing. There was only one thing which 
could have rendered the prospect of Madame Mayer’s picnic 
more disagreeable to him than it already was, and that would 
have been the presence of the Duchessa. He knew himself 
to be in a thoroughly false position in consequence of having 
yielded to Donna Tullia’s half-tearful request that he would 
join the party. He remembered how he had spoken to Corona 
on the previous evening, assuring her that he would not marry 
Madame Meyer. Corona knew nothing of the change his 
plans had undergone during the stormy interview he had had 
with his father ; he longed, indeed, to be able to make the 
Duchessa understand, but any attempt at explanation would 
be wholly impossible. Corona would think he was inconsis- 
tent, or at least that he was willing to flirt with the gay widow, 
while determined not to marry her. He reflected that it was 


38 


saracinesca. 


part of his self-condemnation that he should appear unfavour- 
ably to the woman he loved, and whom he was determined to 
renounce; but he realised for the first time how bitter it would 
be to stand thus always in the appearance of weakness and 
self-contradiction in the eyes of the only human being whose 
good opinion he coveted, and for whose dear sake he was will- 
ing to do all things. As he stood by her, his hand rested upon 
the side of the carriage, and he stared blankly at the distant 
hounds and the retreating riders. 

“ Come, Don Giovanni, we must be going,” said Donna 
Tullia. What in the world are you thinking of ? You look 
as though you had been turned into a statue ! ” 

I beg your pardon,” returned Saracinesca, suddenly called 
back from the absorbing train of his unpleasant thoughts. 

Good-bye, Duchessa; good-bye, Astrardente — a pleasant drive 
to you.” 

You will always regret not having come, you know,” cried 
Madame Mayer, shaking hands with both the occupants of the 
carriage. “ We shall probably end by driving to Alban o, and 
staying all night — just fancy ! Immense fun — not even a 
comb in the whole party ! Good-bye. I suppose we shall all 
meet to-night — that is, if we ever come back to Kome at all. 
Come along, Giovanni,” she said, familiarly dropping the prefix 
from his name. After all, he was a sort of cousin, and people 
in Kome are very apt to call each other by their Christian 
names. But Donna Tullia knew what she was about ; she 
knew that Corona d^Astrardente could never, under any cir- 
cumstances whatever, call Saracinesca plain “ Giovanni.” But 
she had not the satisfaction of seeing that anything she said 
produced any change in Corona’s proud dark face ; she seemed 
of no more importance in the Duchessa’s eyes than if she had 
been a fiy buzzing in the sunshine. 

So Giovanni and Madame Mayer joined their noisy party, 
and began to climb into their places upon the drag ; but before 
they were prepared to start, the Astrardente carriage turned 
and drove rapidly out of the field. The laughter and loud 
talking came to Corona’s ears, growing fainter and more dis- 
tant every second, and the sound was very cruel to her; but 
she set her strong brave lips together, and leaned back, adjust- 
ing the blanket over her old husband’s knees with one hand, 
and shading the sun from her eyes with the parasol she held 
in the other. 

Thank you, my dear ; you are an angel of thoughtfulness,” 
said the old dandy, stroking his wife’s hand. What a singu- 
larly vulgar woman Madame Mayer is ! And yet she has a 
certain little chic of her own.” 


SARACINESCA. 


39 


Corona did not withdraw her fingers from her husband’s 
caress. She was used to it. After all, he was kind to her 
in his way. It would have been absurd to have been jealous 
of the grossly flattering speeches he made to other women; 
and indeed he was as fond of turning compliments to his wife 
as to any one. It was a singular relation that had grown up 
between the old man and the young girl he had married. Had 
he been less thoroughly a man of the world, or had Corona 
been less entirely honest and loyal and self-sacrificing, there 
would have been small peace in their wedlock. But Astrar- 
dente, decayed roue and worn-out dandy as he was, was in love 
with his wife; and she, in all the young magnificence of her 
beauty, submitted to be loved by him, because she had pro- 
mised that she would do so, and because, having sworn, she 
regarded the breaking of her faith by the smallest act of 
unkindness as a thing beyond the bounds of possibility. It 
had been a terrible blow to her to discover that she cared for 
Don Giovanni evdn in the way she believed she did, as a man 
whose society she preferred to that of other men, and whose 
face it gave her pleasure to see. She, too, had spent a sleepless 
night; and when she had risen in the morning, she had deter- 
mined to forget Giovanni, and if she could not forget him, she 
had sworn that more than ever she would be all things to her 
husband. 

She wondered now, as Giovanni had known she would, why 
he had suddenly thrown over his day’s hunting in order to 
spend his time with Donna Tullia; but she would not acknow- 
ledge, even to herself, that the dull pain she felt near her heart, 
and that seemed to oppress her breathing, bore any relation to 
the scene she had just witnessed. She shut her lips tightly, 
and arranged the blanket for her husband. 

Madame Mayer is vulgar,” she answered. I suppose she 
cannot help it.” 

Women can always help being vulgar,” returned Astrar- 
dente. “I believe she learned it from her husband. Women 
are not naturally like that. Nevertheless she is an excellent 
match for Giovanni Saracinesca. Eich, by millions. Undeni- 
ably handsome, gay — well, rather too gay; but Giovanni is so 
serious that the contrast will be to their mutual advantage.” 

Corona was silent. There was nothing the old man disliked 
so much as silence. 

Why do you not answer me ? ” he asked, rather petulantly. 

I do not know— I was thinking,” said Corona, simply. “ I 
do not see that it is a great match after all, for the last of the 
Saracinesca.” 

You think she will lead him a terrible dance, I daresay,’’ 


40 


SARACINESCA. 


returned the old man. ^^She is gay — very gay; and Giovanni 
is very, very solemn/^ 

‘‘ I did not mean that she was too gay. I only think that 
Saracinesca might marry, for instance, the Rocca girl. Why 
should he take a widow ? 

Such a young widow. Old Mayer was as decrepit as any 
old statue in a museum. He was paralysed in one arm, and 
gouty — gouty, my dear; you do not know how gouty he was.^^ 
The old fellow grinned scornfully; he had never had the gout. 

Donna Tullia is a very young widow. Besides, think of the 
fortune. It would break old Saracinesca^s heart to let so much 
money go out of the family. He is a miserly old wretch, 
Saracinesca ! 

“ I never heard thaV^ said Corona. 

“ Oh, there are many things in Rome that one never hears, and 
that is one of them. I hate avarice — it is so extremely vulgar.^^ 

Indeed Astrardente was not himself avaricious, though he 
had all his life known how to protect his interests. He loved 
money, but he loved also to spend it, especially in such a way 
as to make a great show with it. It was not true, however, 
that Saracinesca was miserly. He spent a large income without 
the smallest ostentation. 

Really, I should hardly call Prince Saracinesca a miser,” 
said Corona. I cannot imagine, from what I know of him, 
why he should be so anxious to get Madame Mayer’s fortune; 
but I do not think it is out of mere greediness.” 

“ Then I do not know what you can call it,” returned her 
husband, sharply. ‘^They have always had that dismal black 
melancholy in that family — that detestable love of secretly 
piling up money, while their faces are as grave and sour as any 
Jew’s in the Ghetto.” 

Corona glanced at her husband, and smiled faintly as she 
looked at his thin old features, where the lights and shadows 
were touched in with delicate colour more artfully than any 
actress’s, superficially concealing the lines traced by years of 
affectation and refined egotism ; and she thought of Giovanni’s 
strong manly face, passionate indeed, but noble and bold. A 
moment later she resolutely put the comparison out of her 
mind, and finding that her husband was inclined to abuse the 
Saracinesca, she tried to turn the conversation. 

I suppose it will be a great ball at the Frangipani’s,” she 
said. We will go, of course ?” she added, interrogatively. 

“ Of course. I would not miss it for all the world. There 
has not been such a ball for years as that will be. Do I ever 
miss an opportunity of enjoying myself — I mean, of letting 
you enjoy yourself ? ” 


SARACINESCA. 


41 


No, you are very good/' said Corona, gently. ‘‘ Indeed I 
sometimes think you give yourself trouble about going out on 
my account. Really, I am not so greedy of society. I would 
often gladly stay at home if you wished it." 

“ Do you think I am past enjoying the world, then ? " asked 
the old man, sourly. 

‘‘ No indeed," replied Corona, patiently. “ Why should I 
think that ? I see how much you like going out." 

Of course I like it. A rational man in the prime of life 
always likes to see his fellow-creatures. Why should not I ? " 

The Duchessa did not smile. She was used to hearing her 
aged husband speak of himself as young. It was a harmless 
fancy. 

I think it is quite natural," she said. 

“ What I cannot understand," said Astrardente, muffling his 
thin throat more closely against the keen bright tramontana 
wind, is that such old fellows as Saracinesca should still want 
to play a part in the world." 

Saracinesca was younger than Astrardente, and his iron con- 
stitution bade fair to outlast another generation, in spite of his 
white hair. 

You do not seem to be in a good humour with Saracinesca 
to-day," remarked Corona, by way of answer. 

Why do you defend him ? " asked her husband, in a new 
fit of irritation. ‘‘ He jars on my nerves, the sour old crea- 
ture ! " 

I fancy all Rome will go to the Frangipani ball," began 
Corona again, without heeding the old man's petulance. 

You seem to be interested in it," returned Astrardente. 

Corona was silent; it was her only weapon when he 
became petulant. He hated silence, and generally returned 
to the conversation with more suavity. Perhaps, in his great 
experience, he really appreciated his wife's wonderful patience 
with his moods, and it is certain that he was exceedingly fond 
of her. 

You must have a new gown, my dear," he said presently, 
in a conciliatory tone. 

His wife passed for the best-dressed woman in Rome, as she 
was undeniably the most remarkable in many other ways. She 
was not above taking an interest in dress, and her old husband 
had an admirable taste; moreover, he took a vast pride in her 
appearance, and if she had looked a whit less superior to other 
women, his smiling boast that she was above suspicion would 
have lost some of its force. 

‘‘I hardly think it is necessary," said Corona; I have so 
many things, and it will be a great crowd." 


42 


SARACINESCA. 


dear, be economical of your beauty, but not in your 
adornment of it,” said the old man, with one of his engaging 
grins. “ I desire that you have a new gown for this ball which 
will be remembered by every one who goes to it. You must 
set about it at once.” 

“Well, that is an easy request for any woman to grant,” 
answered Corona, with a little laugh; “though I do not believe 
my gown will be remembered so long as you think.” 

“Who knows — who knows ?” said Astrardente, thoughtfully. 
“I remember gowns I saw” — he checked himself — “why, as 
many as ten years ago ! ” he added, laughing in his turn, per- 
haps at nearly having said forty for ten. “ Gowns, my dear,” 
he continued, “make a profound impression upon men^s minds.” 

“For the matter of that,” said the Duchessa, “ I do not care 
to impress men at all, nor women either.” She spoke lightly, 
pleased that the conversation should have taken a more 
pleasant turn. 

“ Not even to impress me, my dear ? ” asked old Astrardente, 
with a leer. 

“ That is different,” answered Corona, quietly. 

So they talked upon the subject of the gown and the ball 
until the carriage rolled under the archway of the Astrardente 
palace. But when it was three o’clock, and Corona was at 
liberty to go out upon her usual round of visits, she was glad 
that she could go alone; and as she sat among her cushions, 
driving from house to house and distributing cards, she had 
time to think seriously of her situation. It would seem a light 
thing to most wives of aged husbands to have taken a fancy to 
a man such as Giovanni Saracinesca. But the more Corona 
thought of it, the more certain it appeared to her that she was 
committing a great sin. It weighed heavily upon her mind, 
and took from her the innocent pleasure she was wont to feel 
in driving in the bright evening air in the Villa Borghese. It 
took the colour from the sky, and the softness from the cushions ; 
it haunted her and made her miserably unhappy. At every 
turn she expected to see Giovanni’s figure and face, and the 
constant recurrence of the thought seemed to add magnitude 
to the crime of which she accused herself, — the crime of even 
thinking of any man save her old husband — of wishing that 
Giovanni might not marry Donna Tullia after all. 

“I will go to Padre Filippo,” she said to herself as she 
reached home. 


SAEACINESCA. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

Valdarno took Donna Tnllia by bis side upon the front seat 
of the drag; and as luck would have it, Giovanni and Del 
Ferice sat together behind them. Half-a-dozen other men 
found seats somewhere, and among them were the melancholy 
Spicca, who was a famous duellist, and a certain Oasalverde, a 
man of rather doubtful reputation. The others were members 
of what Donna Tullia called her corps de ballet.^^ In those 
days Donna Tullia’s conduct was criticised, and she was thought 
to be emancipated, as the phrase went. Old people opened 
their eyes at the spectacle of the gay young widow going off 
into the Campagna to picnic with a party of men; but if any 
intimate enemy had ventured to observe to her that she was 
giving occasion for gossip, she would have raised her eyebrows, 
explaining that they were all just like her brothers, and that 
Giovanni was indeed a sort of cousin. She would perhaps have 
condescended to say that she would not have done such a thing 
in Paris, but that in dear old Rome one was in the bosom of 
one^s family, and might do anything. At present she sat 
chatting with Valdarno, a tall and fair young man, with a 
weak mouth and a good-natured disposition: she had secured 
Giovanni, and though he sat sullenly smoking behind her, his 
presence gave her satisfaction. Del Ferice’s smooth face wore 
an expression of ineffable calm, and his watery Flue eyes gazed 
languidly on the broad stretch of brown grass which bordered 
the highroad. 

For some time the drag bowled along, and Giovanni was left 
to his own reflections, which wbre not of a very pleasing kind. 
The other men talked of the chances of luck with the hounds; 
and Spicca, who had been a great deal in England, occasionally 
put in a remark not very complimentary to the Roman hunt. 
Del Ferice listened in silence, and Giovanni did not listen at 
all, but buttoned his overcoat to the throat, half closed his 
eyes, and smoked one cigarette after another, leaning back in 
his seat. Suddenly Donna Tullia’s laugh was heard as she 
turned half round to look at Valdarno. 

^^Do you really think so she cried. ^^How soon ? What 
a dance we will lead them then ! 

Del Ferice pricked his ears in the direction of her voice, like 
a terrier that suspects the presence of a rat. Valdarno’s answer 
w'as inaudible, but Donna Tullia ceased laughing immediately. 

They are talking politics,"' said Del Ferice in a low voice, 
leaning towards Giovanni as he spoke. The latter shrugged 
his shoulders and went on smoking. He did not care to be 
drawn into a conversation with Del Ferice. 


44 


SAEACINESCA. 


Del Ferice was a man who was suspected of revolutionary 
sympathies by the authorities in Kome, but who was not 
feared. He was therefore allowed to live his life much as he 
pleased, though he was conscious from time to time that he 
was watched. Being a man, however, who under all circum- 
stances pursued his own interests with more attention than he 
bestowed on those of any party, he did not pretend to attach 
any importance to the distinction of being occasionally followed 
by a spy, as a more foolish man might have done. If he was 
watched, he did not care to exhibit himself to his friends as a 
martyr, to tell stories of the siirro who sometimes dogged his 
footsteps, nor to cry aloud that he was unjustly persecuted. 
He affected a character above suspicion, and rarely allowed 
himself to express an opinion. He was no propagator of new 
doctrines; that was too dangerous a trade for one of his temper. 
But he foresaw changes to come, and he determined that he 
would profit by them. He had little to lose, but he had every- 
thing to gain; and being a patient man, he resolved to gain all 
he could by circumspection — in other words, by acting accord- 
ing to his nature, rather than by risking himself in a bold 
course of action for which he was wholly unsuited. He was 
too wise to attempt wholly to deceive the authorities, knowing 
well that they were not easily deceived; and he accordingly 
steered a middle course, constantly speaking in favour of 
progress, of popular education, and of freedom of the press, 
but at the same time loudly proclaiming that all these things 
— that every benefit of civilisation, in fact — could be obtained 
without the slightest change in the form of government. He 
thus asserted his loyalty to the temporal power while affecting 
a belief in the possibility of useful reforms, and the position he 
thus acquired exactly suited his own ends; for he attracted to 
himself a certain amount of suspicion on account of his pro- 
gressist professions, and then disarmed that suspicion by 
exhibiting a serene indifference to the espionage of which he 
was the object. The consequence was, that at the very time 
when he was most deeply implicated in much more serious 
matters — of which the object was invariably his own ultimate 
profit — at the time when he was receiving money for informa- 
tion he was able to obtain through his social position, he was 
regarded by the authorities, and by most of his acquaintances, 
as a harmless man, who might indeed injure himself by his 
foolish doctrines of progress, but who certainly could not 
injure any one else. Few guessed that his zealous attention to 
social duties, his occasional bursts of enthusiasm for liberal 
education and a free press, were but parts of his machinery for 
making money out of politics. He was so modest, so unosteii' 


SARACINESCA. 


45 


tatious, that no one suspected that the mainspring of his 
existence was the desire for money. 

But, like many intelligent and bad men, Del Ferice had a 
weakness which was gradually gaining upon him and growing 
in force, and which was destined to hasten the course of the 
events which he had planned for himself. It is an extraor- 
dinary peculiarity in unbelievers that they are often more sub- 
ject to petty superstitions than other men; and similarly, it 
often happens that the most cynical and coldly calculating of 
conspirators, who believe themselves proof against all outward 
influences, yield to some feeling of nervous dislike for an in- 
dividual who has never harmed them, and are led on from dis- 
like to hatred, until their soberest actions take colour from 
what in its earliest beginnings was nothing more than a sense- 
less prejudice. Del Ferice’s weakness was his unaccountable 
detestation of Giovanni Saracinesca ; and he had so far suf- 
fered this abhorrence of the man to dominate his existence, 
that it had come to be one of his chiefest delights in life to 
thwart Giovanni wherever he could. How it had begun, or 
when, he no longer knew nor cared. He had perhaps thought 
Giovanni treated him superciliously, or even despised him ; 
and his antagonism being roused by some fancied slight, he 
had shown a petty resentment, which, again, Saracinesca had 
treated with cold indiflerence. Little by little his fancied 
grievance had acquired great proportions in his own estima- 
tion, and he had learned to hate Giovanni more than any man 
living. At first it might have seemed an easy matter to ruin 
his adversary, or, at all events, to cause him great and serious 
injury ; and l3ut for that very indifference which Del Ferice so 
resented, his attempts might have been successful. 

Giovanni belonged to a family who from the earliest times 
had been at swords-drawn with the Government. Their prop- 
erty had been more than once confiscated by the popes, had 
been seized again by force of arms, and had been ultimately 
left to them for the mere sake of peace. They seem to have 
quarrelled with everybody on every conceivable pretext, and to 
have generally got the best of the struggle. No pope had ever 
reckoned upon the friendship of Casa Saracinesca. For genera- 
tions they had headed the opposition whenever there was one, 
and had plotted to form one when there was none ready to 
their hands. It seemed to Del Ferice that in the stirring times 
that followed the annexation of Naples to the Italian crown, 
when all Europe was watching the growth of the new Power, 
it should be an easy matter to draw a Saracinesca into any 
scheme for the subversion of a Government against which so 
many generations of Saracinesca had plotted and fought. To 


46 


SARACINESCA. 


involve Giovanni in some Liberal conspiracy, and then by 
betraying him to cause him to be imprisoned or exiled from 
Kome, was a plan which pleased Del Ferice, and which he 
desired earnestly to put into execution. He had often tried to 
lead his enemy into conversation, repressing and hiding his 
dislike for the sake of his end ; but at the first mention of 
political subjects Giovanni became impenetrable, shrugged his 
shoulders, and assumed an air of the utmost indifference. No 
paradox could draw him into argument, no flattery could loose 
his tongue. Indeed those were times when men hesitated to 
express an opinion, not only because any opinion they might 
express was liable to be exaggerated and distorted by willing 
enemies — a consideration which would not have greatly intimi- 
dated Giovanni Saracinesca — but also because it was impossi- 
ble for the wisest man to form any satisfactory judgment upon 
the course of events. It was clear to every one that ever since 
1848 the temporal power had been sustained by France; and 
though no one in 1865 foresaw the downfall of the Second 
Empire, no one saw any reason for supposing that the military 
protectorate of Louis Napoleon in Kome could last for ever: 
what would be likely to occur if that protection were with- 
drawn was indeed a matter of doubt, but was not looked upon 
by the Government as a legitimate matter for speculation. 

Del Ferice, however, did not desist from his attempts to 
make Giovanni speak out his mind, and whenever an opportu- 
nity offered, tried to draw him into conversation. He was 
destined on the present occasion to meet with greater success 
than had hitherto attended his efforts. The picnic was noisy, 
and Giovanni was in a bad humour; he did not care for Donna 
Tullia’s glances, nor for the remarks she constantly levelled at 
him; still less was he amused by the shallow gaiety of her party 
of admirers, tempered as their talk Avas by the occasional tonic 
of some outrageous cynicism from the melancholy Spicca. 
Del Ferice smiled, and talked, and smiled again, seeking to 
flatter and please Donna Tullia, as was his wont. By-and-by 
the clear north wind and the bright sun dried the ground, and 
Madame Mayer proposed that the party should walk a little 
on the road towards Rome — a proposal of such startling origi- 
nality that it was carried by acclamation. Donna Tullia wanted 
to walk with Giovanni ; but on pretence of having left some- 
thing upon the drag, he gave Valdarno time to take his place. 
When Giovanni began to follow the rest, he found that Del 
Ferice had lagged behind, and seemed to be waiting for him. 

Giovanni was in a bad humour that day. He had suffered 
himself to be persuaded into joining in a species of amusement 
for which he cared nothing, by a mere word from a w'oman for 


SARACINESCA. 


47 


whom he cared less, but whom he had half determined to 
marry, and who had wholly determined to marry him. He, 
who hated vacillation, had been dangling for four-and-twenty 
hours like a pendulum, or, as he said to himself, like an ass 
between two bundles of hay. At one moment he meant to 
marry Donna Tullia, and at anothor he loathed the thought; 
now he felt that he would make any sacrifice to rid the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente of himself, and now again he felt how 
futile such a sacrifice would be. He was ashamed in his heart, 
for he was no boy of twenty to be swayed by a woman^s look 
or a fit of Quixotism; he was a strong grown man who had 
seen the world. He had been in the habit of supposing his 
impulses to be good, and of following them naturally without 
much thought ; it seemed desperately perplexing to be forced 
into an analysis of those impulses in order to d^ecide what he 
should do. He was in a thoroughly bad humour, and Del 
Ferice guessed that if Giovanni could ever be induced to speak 
out, it must be when his temper was not under control. In 
Rome, in the club — there was only one club in those days — in 
society, XJgo never got a chance to talk to his enemy; but here 
upon the Appian Way, with the broad Campagna stretching 
away to right and left and rear, while the remainder of the 
party walked three hundred yards in front, and Giovanni 
showed an evident reluctance to join them, it would go hard 
indeed if he could not be led into conversation. 

I should think,^' Del Ferice began, that if you had your 
choice, you would walk anywhere rather than here.” 

« Why?” asked Giovanni, carelessly. It is a very good road.” 

I should think that our Roman Campagna would be any- 
thing but a source of satisfaction to its possessors — like your- 
self,” answered Del Ferice. 

It is a very good grazing ground.” 

It might be something better. When one thinks that in 
ancient times it was a vast series of villas ” 

The conditions were very different. We do not live in 
ancient times,” returned Giovanni, drily. 

Ah, the conditions ! ” ejaculated Del Ferice, with a suave 
sigh. “ Surely the conditions depend on man — not on nature. 
What our proud forefathers accomplished by law and energy, 
we could, we can accomplish, if we restore law and energy in 
our midst.” 

“ You are entirely mistaken,” answered Saracinesca. It 
would take five times the energy of the ancient Romans to turn 
the Campagna into a garden, or even into a fertile productive 
region. No one is five times as energetic as the ancients. As 
for the laws, they do well enough.” 


48 


SARAOINESCA. 


Del Ferice was delighted. For the first time, Giovanni 
seemed inclined to enter upon an argument with him. 

Why are the conditions so different ? I do not see. Here 
is the same undulating country, the same climate- 

‘^And twice as much water,^^ interrupted Giovanni. '‘You 
forget that the Campagna is very low, and that the rivers in it 
have risen very much. There are parts of ancient Eome now 
laid bare which lie below the present water-mark of the Tiber. 
If the city were built upon its old level, much of it would be 
constantly flooded. The rivers have risen and have swamped 
the country. Do you think any amount of law or energy could 
drain this fever-stricken plain into the sea? I do not. Do 
you think that if I could be persuaded that the land could be 
improved into fertility I would hesitate, at any expenditure in 
my power, to reclaim the miles of desert my father and I own 
here ? The plain is a series of swamps and stone quarries. In 
one place you find the rock a foot below the surface, and the 
soil burns up in summer; a hundred yards farther you find a 
bog hundreds of feet deep, which even in summer is never 
dry.” 

" But,” suggested Del Ferice, who listened patiently enough, 
" supposing the Government passed a law forcing all of .you 
proprietors to plant trees and dig ditches, it would have some 
effect.” 

" The law cannot force us to sacrifice men^s lives. The 
Trappist monks at the Tre Fontane are trying it, and dying by 
scores. Do you think I, or any other Roman, would send 
peasants to such a place, or could induce them to go ? ” 

" Well, it is one of a great many questions which will be 
settled some day,” said Del Ferice. " You will not deny that 
there is room for much improvement in our country, and that 
an infusion of some progressist ideas would be wholesome.” 

"Perhaps so; but you understand one thing by progress, and 
I understand quite another,” replied Giovanni, eyeing in the 
bright distance the figures of Donna Tullia and her friends, 
and regulating his pace so as not to lessen the distance which 
separated them from him. He preferred talking political 
economy with a man he disliked, to being obliged to make con- 
versation for Madame Mayer. 

" I mean by progress, positive improvement without revolu- 
tionary change,” explained Del Ferice, using the phrase he 
had long since constructed as his profession of faith to the 
world. Giovanni eyed him keenly for a moment. He cared 
nothing for Ugo or his ideas, but he suspected him of very 
different principles. 

"You will pardon me,” he said, civilly, "if I venture to 


SARACINESCA. 


49 


doubt whether you have frankly expressed your views. I am 
under the impression that you really connect the idea of im- 
provement with a very positive revolutionary change.^^ 

Del Ferice did not wince, but he involuntarily cast a glance 
behind him. Those were times when people were cautious of 
being overheard. But Del Ferice knew his man, and he knew 
that the only way in which he could continue the interview 
was to accept the imputation as though trusting implicitly to 
the discretion of his companion. 

“ Will you give me a fair answer to a fair question ? he 
asked, very gravely. 

‘^Let me hear the question,” returned Giovanni, indiffer- 
ently. He also knew his man, and attached no more belief to 
anything he said than to the chattering of a parrot. And yet 
Del Ferice had not the reputation of a liar in the world at lar^e. 

“ Certainly,” answered IJgo. “ You are the heir of a family 
which from immemorial time has opposed the popes. You 
cannot be supposed to feel any kind of loyal attachment to the 
temporal power. I do not know whether you individually 
would support it or not. But frankly, how would you regard 
such a revolutionary change as you suspect me of desiring ? ” 

I have no objection to telling you that. I would simply 
make the best of it.” 

Del Ferice laughed at the ambiguous answer, affecting to 
consider it as a mere evasion. 

‘‘We should all try to do that,” he answered; “but what I 
mean to ask is, whether you would personally take up arms to 
fight for the temporal power, or whether you would allow 
events to take their course ? I fancy that would be the ulti- 
mate test of loyalty.” 

“ My instinct would certainly be to fight, whether fighting 
were of any use or not. But the propriety of fighting in such 
a case is a very nice question of judgment. So long as there is 
anything to fight for, no matter how hopeless the odds, a gen- 
tleman should go to the front— but no longer. The question 
must be to decide the precise point at which the position be- 
comes untenable. So long as France makes our quarrels hers, 
every man should give his personal assistance to the cause; but 
it is absurd to suppose that if we were left alone, a handful of 
Eomans against a great Power, we could do more, or should do 
more, than make a formal show of resistance. It has been a 
rule in all ages that a general, however brave, who sacrifices 
the lives of his soldiers in a perfectly hopeless resistance, rather 
than accept the terms of an honourable capitulation, is guilty 
of a military crime.” 

“In other words,” answered Del Ferice, quietly, “if the 


50 


SARACIKESCA. 


French troops were withdrawn, and the Italians were besieging 
Kome, you would at once capitulate ? 

Certainly — after making a formal protest. It would be 
criminal to sacrifice our fellow-citizens" lives in such a case."" 

And then ? "" 

“ Then, as I said before, I would make the best of it — not 
omitting to congratulate Del Ferice upon obtaining a post in 
the new Government,"" added Giovanni, with a laugh. 

But Del Ferice took no notice of the jest. 

“Do you not think that, aside from any question of sympa- 
thy or loyalty to the holy Father, the change of government 
would be an immense advantage to Rome ? "" 

“ No, I do not. To Italy the advantage would he inestima- 
ble; to Rome it would be an injury. Italy would consolidate 
the prestige she began to acquire when Cavour succeeded in 
sending a handful of troops to the Crimea eleven years ago; 
she would at once take a high position as a European Power 
— provided always that the smouldering republican element 
should not break out in opposition to the constitutional mon- 
archy. But Rome would be ruined. She is no longer the 
geographical capital of Italy — she is not even the largest city ; 
but in the course of a few years, violent efforts would be made 
to give her a fictitious modern grandeur, in the place of the 
moral importance she now enjoys as the headquarters of the 
Catholic world. Those efforts at a spurious growth would ruin 
her financially, and the hatred of Romans for Italians of the 
north would cause endless internal dissension. We should be 
subjected to a system of taxation which would fall more 
heavily on us than on other Italians, in proportion as our land 
is less productive. On the whole, we should grow rapidly 
poorer; for prices would rise, and we should have a paper cur- 
rency instead of a metallic one. Especially we landed proprie- 
tors would suffer terribly by the Italian land system being 
suddenly thrust upon us. To be obliged to sell one"s acres to 
any peasant who can scrape together enough to capitalise the 
pittance he now pays as rent, at five per cent, would scarcely 
be agreeable. Such a fellow, from whom I have the greatest 
difficulty in extracting his yearly bushel of grain, could borrow 
twenty bushels from a neighbour, or the value of them, and 
buy me out without my consent— acquiring land worth ten 
times the rent he and his father have paid for it, and his father 
before him. It would produce an extraordinary state of things, 
I can assure you. No — even putting aside what you call my 
sympathies and my loyalty to the Pope — I do not desire any 
change. Nobody who owns much property does; the revolu- 
tionary spirits are people who own nothing."" 


SARACINESCA. 


61 


On the other hand, those who own nothing, or next to 
nothing, are the great majority/^ 

‘^Even if that is true, which I doubt, I do not see why 
the intelligent few should be ruled by that same ignorant 
majority/^ 

But you forget that the majority is to be educated,^^ 
objected Del Ferice. 

“ Education is a term few people can define,^^ returned Gio- 
vanni. Any good schoolmaster knows vastly more than you 
or I. Would you like to be governed by a majority of school- 
masters ? ” 

“ That is a plausible argumenV^ laughed Del Ferice, “but it 
is not sound.^^ 

“ It is not sound ! repeated Giovanni, impatiently. “ People 
are so fond of exclaiming that what they do not like is not 
sound ! Do you think that it would not be a fair case to put 
five hundred schoolmasters against five hundred gentlemen 
of average education ? I think it would be very fair. The 
schoolmasters would certainly have the advantage in educa- 
tion : do you mean to say they would make better or wiser 
electors than the same number of gentlemen who cannot name 
all the cities and rivers in Italy, nor translate a page of Latin 
without a mistake, but who understand the conditions of pro- 
perty by practical e:^erience as no schoolmaster can possibly 
understand them? I tell you it is nonsense. Education, of 
the kind which is of any practical value in the government of 
a nation, means the teaching of human motives, of humanising 
ideas, of some system whereby the majority of electors can 
distinguish the qualities of honesty and common-sense in the 
candidate they Avish to elect. I do not pretend to say what 
that system may be, but I assert that no education which does 
not lead to that kind of knowledge is of any practical use to 
the voting majority of a constitutionally governed country.’’ 

Del Ferice sighed rather sadly. 

“ I am afraid you will not discover that system in Europe,” 
he said. He was disappointed in Giovanni, and in his hopes 
of detecting in him some signs of a reA^olutionary spirit. Sara- 
cinesca was a gentleman of the old school, who evidently 
despised majorities and modern political science as a whole, 
who for the sake of his own interests desired no change from 
the Government under Avhich he lived, and who would surely 
be the first to draw the sword for the temporal power, and the 
last to sheathe it. His calm judgment concerning the fallacy 
of holding a hopeless position would vanish like smoke if his 
fiery blood were once roused. He was so honest a man that 
even Del Ferice could not suspect him of parading views he 


52 


SARACiltESCA. 


did not hold ; and Ugo then and there abandoned all idea of 
bringing him into political trouble and disgrace, though he by 
no means gave up all hope of being able to ruin him in some 
other way. 

I agree with you there at least,” said Saracinesca. The 
only improvements worth having are certainly not to be found 
in Europe. Donna Tullia is calling us. We had better join 
that harmless flock of lambs, and give over speculating on the 
advantages of allying ourselves with a pack of wolves who will 
eat us up, house and home, bag and baggage.” 

So the whole party climbed again to their seats upon the 
drag, and Valdarno drove them back into Rome by the Porta 
San Giovanni. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Corona d^Astrardente had been educated in a convent — that 
is to say, she had been brought up in the strict practice of her 
religion; and during the flve years which had elapsed since she 
had come out into the world, she had found no cause for forsak- 
ing the habits she had acquired in her girlhood. Some people 
And religion a burden; others regard it as an indifferently use- 
less institution, in which they desire no share, and concerning 
which they never trouble themselves ; others, again, look upon 
it as the mainstay of their lives. 

It is natural to suppose that the mode of thought and the 
habits acquired by young girls in a religious institution will 
not disappear without a trace when they flrst go into the 
world, and it may even be expected that some memory of the 
early disposition thus cultivated will cling to them throughout 
their lives. But the multifarious interests of social existence 
do much to shake that young ediflce of faith. The driving 
strength of stormy passions of all kinds undermines the walls 
of the fabric, and when at last the bolt of adversity strikes full 
upon the keystone of the arch, upon the self of man or woman, 
weakened and loosened by the tempests of years, the whole 
palace of the soul falls in, a hopeless wreck, wherein not even 
the memory of outline can be traced, nor the faint shadow of a 
beauty which is destroyed for ever. 

But there are some whose interests in this world are not 
strong enough to shake their faith in the next; whose passions 
do not get the mastery, and whose self is sheltered from danger 
by something more than the feeble defence of an accomplished 
egotism. Corona was one of these, for her lot had not been 
happy, nor her path strewn with roses. 

She was a friendless woman, destined to suffer much, and 


SARACIl^ESCA. 


53 


her suffering was the more intense that she seemed always 
upon the point of finding friends in the world where she 
played so conspicuous a part. There can be little happiness 
when a whole life has been placed upon a false foundation, 
even though so dire a mistake may have been committed will- 
ingly and from a sense of duty and obligation, such as drove 
Corona to marry old Astrardente. Consolation is not satisfac- 
tion ; and though, when she refiected on what she had done, 
she knew that from her point of view she had done her best, 
she knew also that she had closed upon herself the gates of the 
earthly paradise, and that for her the prospect of happiness 
had been removed from the now to the hereafter — the dim and 
shadowy glass in which we love to see any reflection save that 
of our present lives. And to her, thus living in submission 
to the consequences of her choice, that faith in things better 
which had inspired her to sacrifice was the chief remaining 
source of consolation. There was a good man to whom she 
went for advice, as she had gone to him ever since she could 
remember. When she found herself in trouble she never hesi- 
tated. Padre Filippo was to her the living proof of the possi- 
bility of human goodness, as faith is to us all the evidence of 
things not seen. 

Corona was in trouble now — in a trouble so new that she 
hardly understood it, so terrible and yet so vague that she 
felt her peril imminent. She did not hesitate, therefore, nor 
change her mind upon the morning following the day of the 
meet, but drove to the church of the Capuchins in the Piazza 
Barberini, and went up the broad steps with a beating heart, 
not knowing how she should tell what she meant to tell, yet 
knowing that there was for her no hope of peace unless she 
told it quickly, and got that advice and direction she so 
earnestly craved. 

Padre Filippo had been a man of the world in his time — a 
man of great cultivation, full of refined tastes and understand- 
ing of tastes in others, gentle and courteous in his manners, 
and very kind of heart. No one knew whence he came. He 
spoke Italian correctly and with a keen scholarly use of words, 
but his slight accent betrayed his foreign birth. He had been 
a Capuchin monk for many years, perhaps for more than half 
his lifetime, and Corona could remember him from her child- 
hood, for he had been a friend of her father’s ; but he had not 
been consulted about her marriage,— she even remembered 
that, though she had earnestly desired to see him before the 
wedding-day, her father had told her that he had left Pome 
for a time. For the old gentleman was in terrible earnest 
about the match, so that in his heart he feared lest Corona 


54 


SARACINESCA. 


might wavei’ and ask Padre Filippo’s advice; and he knew the 
good monk too well to think that he would give his counte- 
nance to such a sacrifice as was contemplated in marrying the 
young girl to old Astrardente. Corona had known this later, 
but had hardly realised the selfishness of her father, nor indeed 
had desired to realise it. It was sufficient that he had died 
satisfied in seeing her married to a great noble, and that she 
had been able, in his last days, to relieve him from the distress 
of debt and embarrassment which had doubtless contributed 
to shorten his life. 

The proud woman who had thus once humbled herself for 
an object she thought good, had never referred to her action 
again. She had never spoken of her position to Padre Filippo, 
so that the monk wondered and admired her steadfastness. If 
she suffered, it was in silence, without comment and without 
complaint, and so she would have suffered to the end. But it 
had been ordered otherwise. For months she had known that 
the interest she felt in Giovanni Saracinesca was increasing: 
she had choked it down, had done all in her power to prove 
herself indifferent to him; but at last the crisis had come. 
When he spoke to her of his marriage, she had felt — she knew 
now that it was so — that she loved him. The very word, as 
she repeated it to herself, rang like an awful, almost incompre- 
hensible, accusation of evil in her ears. One moment she stood 
at the top of the steps outside the church, looking down at the 
bare straggling trees below, and upward to the grey sky, against 
which the lofty eaves of the Palazzo Barberini stood out sharply 
defined. The weather had changed again, and a soft southerly 
wind was blowing the spray of the fountain half across the 
piazza. Corona paused, her graceful figure half leaning against 
the stone doorpost of the church, her hand upon the heavy 
leathern curtain in the act to lift it; and as she stood there, a 
desperate temptation assailed her. It seemed desperate to her 
— to many another woman it would have appeared only the 
natural course to pursue — to turn her back upon the church, 
to put off the hard moment of confession, to go down again 
into the city, and to say to herself that there was no harm in 
seeing Don Giovanni, provided she never let him speak of love. 
Why should he speak of it ? Had she any reason to suppose 
there was danger to her in anything he meant to say ? Had 
he ever, by word or deed, betrayed that interest in her which 
she knew in herself was love for him ? Had he ever ? — ah yes! 
It was only the night before last that he had asked her advice, 
had besought her to advise him not to marry another, had suf- 
fered his arm to tremble when she laid her hand upon it. In 
the quick remembrance that he too had shown some feeling. 


SARACINESCA. 


55 


there was a sudden burst of joy such as Corona had never felt, 
and a moment later she knew it and was afraid. It was true, 
then. At the very time when she was most oppressed with the 
sense of her fault in loving him, there was an inward rejoicing 
in her heart at the bare thought that she loved him. Could a 
woman fall lower, she asked herself — lower than to delight in 
what she knew to be most bad ? And yet it was such a poor 
little thrill of pleasure after all; but it was the first she had 
ever known. To turn away and refiect for a few days would 
be so easy ! It would be so sweet to think of it, even though 
the excuse for thinking of Giovanni should be a good deter- 
mination to root him from her life. It would be so sweet to 
drive again alone among the trees that very afternoon, and to 
weigh the salvation of her soul in the balance of her heart: her 
heart would know how to turn the scales, surely enough. 
Corona stood still, holding the curtain in her hand. She was 
a brave woman, but she turned pale — not hesitating, she said 
to herself, but pausing. Then, suddenly, a great scorn of her- 
self arose in her. Was it worthy of her even to pause in doing 
right? The nobility of her courage cried loudly to her to go 
in and do the thing most worthy: her hand lifted the heavy 
leathern apron^ and she entered the church. 

The air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light fell 
coldly through the tall windows. Corona shuddered, and drew 
her furs more closely about her as she passed up the aisle to 
the door of the sacristy. She found the monk she sought, and 
she made her confession. 

“ Padre mio,^^ she said at last, when the good man thought 
she had finished — Padre mio, I am a very miserable woman.^^ 
She hid her dark face in her ungloved hands, and one by one 
the crystal tears welled from her eyes and trickled down upon 
her small fingers and upon the worn black wood of the confes- 
sional. 

“My daughter,” said the good monk, “I will pray for you, 
others will pray for you — but before all things, you must pray 
for yourself. And let me advise you, my child, that as we are 
all led into temptation, we must not think that because we have 
been in temptation we have sinned hopelessly; nor, if we have 
fought against the thing that tempts us, should we at once 
imagine that we have overcome it, and have done altogether 
right. If there were no evil in ourselves, there could be no 
temptation from without, for nothing evil could seem pleasant. 
But with you I cannot find that you have done any great 
wrong as yet. You must take courage. We are all in the 
world, and do what we may, we cannot disregard it. The sin 
you see is real, but it is yet not very near you since you so 


56 


SARACINESCA. 


abhor it; and if you pray that you may hate it, it will go fur- 
ther from you till you may hope not even to understand how 
it could once have been so near. Take courage — take comfort. 
Do not be morbid. Kesist temptation, but do not analyse it 
nor yourself too closely; for it is one of the chief signs of evil 
in us that when we dwell too much upon ourselves and upon 
our temptations, we ourselves seem good in our own eyes, and 
our temptations not unpleasant, because the very resisting of 
them seems to make us appear better than we are.^^ 

But the tears still flowed from Corona’s eyes in the dark 
corner of the church, and she could not be comforted. 

“ Padre mio,” she ^repeated, “ I am very unhappy. I have 
not a friend in the world to whom I can speak. I have never 
seen my life before as I see it now. God forgive me, I have 
never loved my husband. I never knew what it meant to love. 
I was a mere child, a very innocent child, when I was married 
to him. I would have sought your advice, but they told me 
you were away, and I thought I was doing right in obeying my 
father.” 

Padre Filippo sighed. He had long known and understood 
why Corona had not been allowed to come to him at the most 
important moment of her life. 

“ My husband is very kind to me,” she continued in broken 
tones. ^^He loves me in his way, but I do not love him. That 
of itself is a great sin. It seems to me as though I saw but 
one half of life, and saw it from the window of a prison; and 
yet I am not imprisoned. I would that I were, for I should 
never have seen another man. I should never have heard his 
voice, nor seen his face, nor — nor loved him, as I do love him,” 
she sobbed. 

Hush, my daughter,” said the old monk, very gently. 
‘^You told me you had never spoken of love; that you were 

interested in him, indeed, but that you did not know ” 

I know — I know now,” cried Corona, losing all control as 
the passionate tears flowed down. could not say it — it 
seemed so dreadful — I love him with my whole self ! 1 can 

never get it out — it burns me. 0 God, I am so wretched! ” 

Padre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible case. 
He could not remember in all his experience to have known 
one more sad to contemplate, though his business was with the 
sins and the sorrows of the world. The beautiful woman 
kneeling outside his confessional was innocent — as innocent as 
a child, brave and faithful. She had sacriflced her whole life 
for her father, who had been little worthy of such devotion ; 
she had borne for years the suffering of being tied to an old man 
whom she could not help despising, however honestly she tried 


SARACINESCA. 


57 


to conceal the fact from herself, however effectually she hid it 
from others. It was a wonder the disaster had not occurred 
before : it showed how loyal and true a woman she was, that, 
living in the very centre and midst of the world, admired and 
assailed by many, she should never in five years have so much 
as thought of any man beside her husband. A woman made 
for love and happiness, in the glory of beauty and youth, capa- 
ble of such unfaltering determination in her loyalty, so good, 
so noble, so generous, — it seemed unspeakably pathetic to hear 
her weeping her heart out, and confessing that, after so many 
struggles and efforts and sacrifices, she had at last met the 
common fate of all humanity, and was become subject to love. 
What might have been her happiness was turned to dishonour; 
what should have been the pride of her young life was made a 
reproach. 

She would not fall. The grey-haired monk believed that, 
in his great knowledge of mankind. But she would suffer 
terribly, and it might be that others would suffer also. It 
was the consequence of an irretrievable error in the beginning, 
when it had seemed to the young girl just leaving the convent 
that the best protection against the world of evil into which 
she was to go would be the unconditional sacrifice of herself. 

Padre Filippo was silent. He hoped that the passionate 
outburst of grief and self-reproach would pass, though he 
himself could find little enough to say. It was all too natural. 
What was he, he thought, that he should explain away nature, 
and bid a friendless woman defy a power that has more than 
once overset the reckoning of the world ? He could bid her 
pray for help and strength, but he found it hard to argue the 
case with her; for he had to allow that his beautiful penitent 
was, after all, only experiencing what it might have been 
foretold that she must feel, and that, as far as he could see, 
she was struggling bravely against the dangers of her situa- 
tion. 

Corona cried bitterly as she knelt there. It was a great 
relief to give way for a time to the whole violence of what 
she felt. It may be that in her tears there was a subtle 
instinctive knowledge that she was weeping for her love as 
well as for her sin in loving, but her grief was none the less 
real. She did not understand herself. She did not know, 
as Padre Filippo knew, that her woman^s heart was breaking 
for sympathy rather than for religious counsel. She knew 
many women, but her noble pride would not have let her 
even contemplate the possibility of confiding in any one of 
them, qven if she could have done so in the certainty of not 
being herself betrayed and of not betraying the man she loved. 


58 


SARACIKESCA. 


She had been accustomed to come to her confessor for counsel, 
and she now came to him with her troubles and craved sym- 
pathy for them, in the knowledge that Padre Filippo could 
never know the name of the man who had disturbed her 
peace. 

But the monk understood well enough, and his kind heart 
comprehended hers and felt for her. 

My daughter,^’ he said at last, when she seemed to have 
grown more calm, “ it would be an inestimable advantage if 
this man could go away for a time, but that is probably not 
to be expected. Meanwhile, you must not listen to him if he 
speaks 

It is not that,” interrupted Corona — it is not that. He 
never speaks of love. Oh, I really believe he does not love me 
at all! ” But in her heart she felt that he must love her; and 
her hand, as it lay upon the hard wood of the confessional, 
seemed still to feel his trembling arm. 

^^That is so much the better, my child,” said the monk, 
quietly. For if he does not love you, your temptations will 
not grow stronger.” 

And yet, perhaps — he may ” murmured Corona, feeling 

that it would be wrong even to conceal her faintest suspicions 
at such a time. 

“ Let there be no perhaps,” answered Padre Filippo, almost 
sternly. ‘^Let it never enter your mind that he might love 
you. Think that even from the worldly point there is small 
dignity in a woman who exhibits love for a man who has never 
mentioned love to her. You have no reason to suppose you 
are loved save that you desire to be. Let there be no perhaps.” 

The monk^s keen insight into character had given him an 
unexpected weapon in Corona’s defence. He knew how of all 
things a proud woman hates to know that where she has placed 
her heart there is no response, and that if she fails to awaken 
an affection akin to her own, what has been love may be turned 
to loathing, or at least to indifference. The strong character 
of the Duchessa d’Astrardente responded to his touch as he 
expected. Her tears ceased to flow, and her ^corn rose haughtily 
against herself. 

It is true. I am despicable,” she said, suddenly. ‘‘ You 
have shown me myself. There shall be no perhaps. I loathe 
myself for thinking of it. Pray for me, lest I fall so low again.” 

A few minutes later Corona left the confessional and went 
and kneeled in the body of the church to collect her thoughts. 
She was in a very different frame of mind from that in which 
she had left home an hour ago. She hardly knew whether she 
felt herself a better woman, but she was sure that she was 


SARACINESCA. 


59 


stronger. There was no desire left in her to meditate sadly 
upon her sorrow — to go over and over in her thoughts the 
feelings she experienced, the fears she felt, the half-formulated 
hope that Giovanni might love her after all. There was left 
only a haughty determination to have done with her folly 
quickly and surely, and to try and forget it for ever. The 
confessor’s words had produced their effect. Henceforth she 
would never stoop so low again. She was ready to go out into 
the world now, and she felt no fear. It was more from habit 
than for the sake of saying a prayer that she knelt in the 
church after her confession, for she felt very strong. She rose 
to her feet presently, and moved towards the door : she had not 
gone half the length of the church when she came face to face 
with Donna Tullia Mayer. 

It was a strange coincidence. The ladies of Eome frequently 
go to the church of the Capuchins, as Corona had done, to seek 
the aid and counsel of Padre Filippo, but Corona had never 
met Donna Tullia there. Madame Mayer did not profess to be 
very devout. As a matter of fact, she had not found it con- 
venient to go to confession during the Christmas season, and 
she had been intending to make up for the deficiency for some 
time past; but it is improbable that she would have decided 
upon fulfilling her religious obligations before Lent if she had 
not chanced to see the Duchessa d’Astrardente’s carriage 
standing at the foot of the church steps. 

Donna Tullia had risen early because she was going to sit 
for her portrait to a young artist who lived in the neighbourhood 
of the Piazza Barberini, and as she passed in her brougham 
she caught sight of the Duchessa’s liveries. The artist could 
wait half an hour: the opportunity was admirable. She was 
alone, and would not only do her duty in going to confession, 
but would have a chance of seeing how Corona looked when 
she had been at her devotions. It might also be possible to 
judge from Padre Filippo’s manner whether the interview had 
been an interesting one. The Astrardente was so very devout 
that she probably had difficulty in inventing sins to confess. 
One might perhaps tell from her face whether she had felt any 
emotion. At all events the opportunity should not be lost. 
Besides, if Donna Tullia found that she herself was really not 
in a proper frame of mind for religious exercises, she could 
easily spend a few moments in the church and then proceed 
upon her way. She stopped her carriage and went in. She had 
just entered when she was aware of the tall figure of Corona 
d’ Astrardente coming towards her, magnificent in the simpli- 
city of her furs, a short veil just covering half her face, and an 
unwonted colour in her dark cheeks. 


60 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona was surprised at meeting Madame Mayer, but she 
did not show it. She nodded with a sufficiently pleasant 
smile, and would have passed on. This would not have suited 
Donna Tullia’s intentions, however, for she meant to have a 
good look at her friend. It was not for nothing that she had 
made up her mind to go to confession at a moment’s notice. 
She therefore stopped the Duchessa, and insisted upon shaking 
hands. 

“ What an extraordinary coincidence ! ” she exclaimed. “You 
must have been to see Padre Pilippo too ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Corona. “ You will find him in the sac- 
risty.” She noticed that Madame Mayer regarded her with 
great interest. Indeed she could hardly be aware how unlike 
her usual self she appeared. There were dark rings beneath 
her eyes, and her eyes themselves seemed to emit a strange 
light; while an unwonted colour illuminated her olive cheeks, 
and her voice had a curiously excited tone. Madame Mayer 
stared at her so hard that she noticed it. 

“ Why do you look at me like that ? ” asked the Duchessa, 
with a smile. 

“ I was wondering what in the world you could find to con- 
fess,” replied Donna Tullia, sweetly. “ You are so Immensely 
good, you see; everybody wonders at you.” 

Corona’s eyes fiashed darkly. She suspected that Madame 
Mayer noticed something unusual in her appearance, and had 
made the awkward speech to conceal her curiosity. She was 
annoyed at the meeting, still more at being detained in conver- 
sation within the church. 

“ It is very kind of you to invest me with such virtues,” she 
answered. “ I assure you I am not half so good as you sup- 
pose. Good-bye — I must be going home.” 

“Stay!” exclaimed Donna Tullia; “I can go to confession 
another time. Will not you come with me to Gouache’s studio ? 
I am going to sit. It is such a bore to go alone.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said Corona, civilly. “ I am afraid 
I cannot go. My husband expects me at home. I wish you a 
good sitting.” 

“Well, good-bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, we had such a 
charming picnic yesterday. It was so fortunate — the only fine 
day this week. Giovanni was very amusing: he was com- 
pletely en train, and kept us laughing the whole day. Good- 
bye ; I do so wish you had come.” 

“I was very sorry,” answered Corona, quietly, “ but it was 
impossible. I am glad you all enjoyed it so much. Good-bye.” 

So they parted. 

“ How she wishes that same husband of hers would follow 


SARACIKESCA. 


61 


the example of my excellent old Mayer, of blessed memory, and 
take himself out of the world to-day or to-morrow thought 
Donna Tullia, as she walked up the church. 

She was sure something unusual had occurred, and she 
longed to fathom the mystery. But she was not altogether a 
bad woman, and when she had collected her thoughts she made 
up her mind that even by the utmost stretch of moral indul- 
gence, she could not consider herself in a proper state to un- 
dertake so serious a matter as confession. She therefore 
waited a few minutes, to give time for Corona to drive away, 
and then turned back. She cautiously pushed aside the cur- 
tain and looked out. The Astrardente carriage was just disap- 
pearing in the distance. Donna Tullia descended the steps, 
got into her brougham, and proceeded to the studio of Mon- 
sieur Anastase Gouache, the portrait-painter. She had not 
accomplished much, save to rouse her curiosity, and that part- 
ing thrust concerning Don Giovanni had been rather ill-timed. 

She drove to the door of the studio and found Del Ferice 
waiting for her as usual. If Corona had accompanied her, she 
would have expressed astonishment at finding him; but, as a 
matter of fact, Ugo always met her there, and helped to pass 
the time while she was sitting. He was very amusing, and not 
altogether unsympathetic to her; and moreover, he professed 
for her the most profound devotion — genuine, perhaps, and 
certainly skilfully expressed. If any one had paid much at- 
tention to Del Ferice's doings, it would have been said that he 
was paying court to the rich young widow. But he was never 
looked upon by society from the point of view of matrimonial 
possibility, and no one thought of attaching any importance to 
his doings. Nevertheless Ugo, who had been gradually rising 
in the social scale for many years, saw no reason why he should 
not win the hand of Donna Tullia as well as any one else, if 
only Giovanni Saracinesca could be kept out of the way; and 
he devoted himself with becoming assiduity to the service of 
the widow, while doing his utmost to promote Giovanni^s at- 
tachment for the Astrardente, which he had been the first to 
discover. Donna Tullia would probably have laughed to scorn 
the idea that Del Ferice could think of himself seriously as a 
suitor, but of all her admirers she found him the most constant 
and the most convenient. 

What are the news this morning ? she asked, as he opened 
her carriage-door for her before the studio. 

None, save that I am your faithful slave as ever,” he an- 
swered. 

I have just seen the Astrardente,” said Donna Tullia, still sit- 
ting in her seat. I will let you guess where it was that we met.” 


62 


SARACINESCA. 


You met in the church of the Capuchins/^ replied Del Fe- 
rice promptly, with a smile of satisfaction. 

“ tou are a sorcerer: how did you know? Did you guess 
it?^^ 

If you will look down this street from, where I stand, you 
will perceive that I could distinctly see any carriage which 
turned out of the Piazza Barberini towards the Capuchins,'*' 
replied Ugo. She was there nearly an hour, and you only 
stayed five minutes.” 

‘‘How dreadful it is to be watched like this!” exclaimed 
Donna Tullia, with a little laugh, half expressive of satisfaction 
and half of amusement at Del Ferice's devotion. 

“ How can I help watching you, as the earth watches the sun 
in its daily course ? ” said Ugo, with a sentimental intonation 
of his soft persuasive voice. Donna Tullia looked at his smooth 
face, and laughed again, half kindly. 

“The Astrardente had been confessing her sins,” she re- 
marked. 

“ Again ? She is always confessing.” 

“ What do you suppose she finds to say ? ” asked Donna 
Tullia. 

“ That her husband is hideous, and that you are beautiful,” 
answered Del Ferice, readily enough. 

“ Why?” 

“ Because she hates her husband and hates you.” 

“ Why, again ? ” 

“ Because you took Giovanni Saracinesca to your picnic yes- 
terday; because you are always taking him away from her. 
For the matter of that, I hate him as much as the Astrardente 
hates you,” added Del Ferice, with an agreeable smile. Donna 
Tullia did not despise fiattery, but Ugo made her thoughtful. 

“ Do you think she really cares ? ” she asked. 

“ As surely as that he does not,” replied Del Ferice. 

“ It would be strange,” said Donna Tullia, meditatively. “ I 
would like to know if it is true.” 

“ You have only to watch them.” 

“ Surely Giovanni cares more than she does,” objected Ma- 
dame Mayer. “ Everybody says he loves her; nobody says she 
loves him.” 

“ All the more reason. Popular report is always mistaken — 
except in regard to you.” 

“To me?” 

“ Since it ascribes to you so much that is good, it cannot be 
wrong,” replied Del Ferice. 

Donna Tullia laughed, and took his hand to descend from 
her carriage. 


SARACINESCA. 


63 


CHAPTER VII. 

Monsieur Gonache^s studio was on the second floor. The 
narrow flight of steps ended abruptly against a green door, per- 
forated by a slit for the insertion of letters, by a shabby green 
cord which, being pulled, rang a feeble bell, and adorned by a 
visiting-card, whereon with many superfluous flourishes and 
ornaments of caligraphy was inscribed the name of the artist — 
Anastase Gouache. 

The door being opened by a string, Donna Tullia and Del 
Ferice entered, and mounting half-a-dozen more steps, found 
themselves in the studio, a spacious room with a window high 
above the floor, half shaded by a curtain of grey cotton. In 
one corner an iron stove gave out loud cracking sounds, pleas- 
ant to hear on the damp winter’s morning, and the flame shone 
red through chinks of the rusty door. A dark-green carpet in 
passably good condition covered the floor; three or four broad 
divans, spread with oriental rugs, and two very much dilapi- 
dated carved chairs with leathern seats, constituted the furni- 
ture; the walls were hung with sketches of heads and figures; 
half-finished portraits stood upon two easels, and others were 
leaning together in a corner; a couple of small tables were 
covered with colour-tubes, brushes, and palette-knives; min- 
gled odours of paint, varnish, and cigarette-smoke pervaded 
the air; and, lastly, upon a high stool before one of the easels, 
his sleeves turned up to the elbow, and his feet tucked in upon 
a rail beneath him, sat Anastase Gouache himself. 

He was a man of not more than seven-aiid-twenty years, with 
delicate pale features, and an abundance of glossy black hair. 
A small and very much pointed moustache shaded his upper 
lip, and the extremities thereof rose short and perpendicular 
from the corners of his well-shaped mouth. His eyes were 
dark and singularly expressive, his forehead low and very broad ; 
his hands were sufficiently nervous and well knit, but white as 
a woman’s, and the fingers tapered delicately to the tips. He 
wore a brown, velvet coat more or less daubed with paint, and 
his collar was low at the throat. 

He sprang from his high stool as Donna Tullia and Del 
Ferice entered, his palette and mahl-stick in his hand, and 
made a most ceremonious bow ; whereat Donna Tullia laughed 
gaily. 

“ Well, Gouache,” she said familiarly, what have you been 
doing ? ” 

Anastase motioned to her to come before his canvas and con- 
template the portrait of herself upon which he was working. 
It was undeniably good — a striking figure in full-Jength, life- 


64 


SARACINESCA. 


size, and breathing with Donna Tullia^s vitality, if also with 
something of her coarseness. 

Ah, my friend,'^ remarked Del Ferice, you will never be 
successful until you take my advice.'’^ 

‘‘ I think it is very like,^’ said Donna Tullia, thoughtfully. 

“ You are too modesV^ answered Del Ferice. There is the 
foundation of likeness, but it lacks yet the soul.” 

“ Oh, but that will come,” returned Madame Mayer. Then 
turning to the artist, she added in a more doubtful voice, ‘‘ Per- 
haps, as Del Ferice says, you might give it a. little more expres- 
sion — what shall I say ? — more p<5etry.” 

Anastase Gouache smiled a fine smile. He was a man of 
immense talent; since he had won the Prix de Kome he had 
j made great progress, and was already half famous with that 
^oung celebrity which young men easily mistake for fame itself. 

new comet visible only through a good glass causes a deal of 
talk and speculation in the world; but unless it comes near 
enough to brush the earth with its tail, it is very soon for- 
gotten. ,• But Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked 
steadily on. When Madame Mayer expressed a wish for a 
little more poetry in her portrait, he smiled, well knowing that 
poetry was as far removed from her nature as dry champagne 
is different in quality from small beer. 

^^Yes,” he said; “I know — I am only too conscious of that 
defect.” As indeed he was — conscious of the defect of it in 
herself. But he had many reasons for not wishing to quarrel 
with Donna Tullia, and he swallowed his artistic convictions in 
a rash resolve to make her look like an inspired prophetess 
rather than displease her. 

“If you will sit down, I will work upon the head,” he said; 
and moving one of the old carved chairs into position for her, 
he adjusted the light and began to work without any further 
words. Del Ferice installed himself upon a divan whence he 
could see Donna Tullia and her portrait, and the sitting began. 
It might have continued for some time in a profound silence 
as far as the two men were concerned, but silence was not 
bearable for long to Donna Tullia. 

“ What were you and Saracinesca talking about yesterday ? ” 
she asked suddenly, looking towards Del Ferice. 

“ Politics,” he answered, and was silent. 

“ Well?” inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously. 

“ I am sure you know his views as well as I,” returned Del 
Ferice, rather gloomily. “He is stupid and prejudiced.” 

“ Keally ? ” ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise. “ A 
little more towards me, Madame. Thank you — so.” And he 
continued painting. 


SARACIKESCA. 


65 


‘‘You are absurd, Del Ferice!^^ exclaimed Donna Tullia, 
colouring a little. “ Yon think every one prejudiced and 
stupid who does not agree with you.” 

“ With me? With you, with us, you should say. Giovanni 
is a specimen of the furious Conservative, who hates change 
and has a cold chill at the word ‘ republic." Do you call that 
intelligent ? ” 

“ Giovanni is intelligent for all that,” answered Madame 
Mayer. “ I am not sure that he is not more intelligent tlian 
you— in some ways,"" she added, after allowing her rebuke to 
take etfect. 

Del Ferice smiled blandly. It was not his business to show 
that he was hurt. 

“ In one thing he is stupid compared with me,” he replied. 
“ He is very far from doing justice to your charms. It must 
be a singular lack of intelligence which prevents him from 
seeing that you are as beautiful as you are charming. Is it not 
so, Gouache ? "" 

“ Does any one deny it ? ” asked the Frenchman, with an air 
of devotion. 

Madame Mayer blushed with annoyance; both because she 
coveted Giovanni"s admiration more than that of other men, 
and knew that she had not won it, and because she hated to 
feel that Del Ferice was able to wound her so easily. To cover 
her discomfiture she returned to the subject of politics. 

“ We talk a great deal of our convictions,” she said; “ but in 
the meanwhile we must acknowledge that we have accom- 
plished nothing at all. What is the good of our meeting here 
two or three times a-week, meeting in society, whispering to- 
gether, corresponding in cipher, and doing all manner of things, 
when everything goes on just the same as before ? "" 

“ Better give it up and join Don Giovanni and his party,” 
returned Del Ferice, with a sneer. “ He says if a change comes 
he will make the best of it. Of course, we could not do better."" 

“ With us it is so easy,” said Gouache, thoughtfully. “ A 
handful of students, a few paving-stones, ‘ Vive la Eepublique! " 
and we have a tumult in no time.” 

That was not the kind of revolution in which Del Ferice 
proposed to have a hand. He meditated playing a very small 
part in some great movement; and when the fighting should 
be over, he meant to exaggerate the part he had pla3^ed, and 
claim a substantial reward. For a good title and twenty thou- 
sand francs a-year he would have become as stanch for the 
temporal power as any canon of St. Peter"s. When he had 
begun talking of revolutions to Madame Mayer and to half-a- 
dozen harebrained youths, of whom Gouache the painter was 


66 


SAEACIKESCA. 


one, he had not really the slightest idea of accomplishing any- 
thing. He took advantage of the prevailing excitement in 
order to draw Donna Tullia into a closer confidence than he 
could otherwise have aspired to obtain. He wanted to marry 
her, and every new power he could obtain over her was a step 
towards his goal. Neither she nor her friends were of the stuff 
refjuired for revolutionary work; but Del Ferice had hopes 
that, by means of the knot of malcontents he was gradually 
drawing together, he might ruin Giovanni Saracinesca, and get 
the hand of Donna Tullia in marriage. He himself was indeed 
deeply implicated in the plots of the Italian party; but he was 
only employed as a spy, and in reality knew no more of the real 
intentions of those he served than did Donna Tullia herself. 
But the position was sufficiently lucrative; so much so that he 
had been obliged to account for his accession of fortune by say- 
ing that an uncle of his had died and left him money. 

‘‘ If you expected Don Giovanni to Join a mob of students in 
tearing up paving-stones and screaming ‘Vive la Republique! ’ 
I am not surprised that you are disappointed in your expecta- 
tions,” said Donna Tullia, rather scornfully. 

“ That is only Gouache’s idea of a popular movement,” an- 
swered Del Ferice. 

“And yours,” returned Anastase, lowering his mahl-stick and 
brushes, and turning sharply upon the Italian — “ yours would 
be to begin by stabbing Cardinal Antonelli in the back.” 

“You mistake me, my friend,” returned Del Ferice, blandly. 
“ If you volunteered to perform that service to Italy, I would 
certainly not dissuade you. But I would certainly not offer you 
my assistance.” 

“Fie! How can you talk like that of murder!” exclaimed 
Donna Tullia. “Go on with your painting. Gouache, and do 
not be ridiculous.” 

“ The question of tyrannicide is marvellously interesting,” 
answered Anastase in a meditative tone, as he resumed his 
work, and glanced critically from Madame Mayer to his canvas 
and back again. 

‘ It belongs to a class of actions at which Del Ferice rejoices, 
but in which he desires no part,” said Donna Tullia. 

“ It seems to me wiser to contemplate accomplishing the good 
result without any unnecessary and treacherous bloodshed,” 
answered Del Ferice, sententiously. Again Gouache smiled in 
his delicate satirical fashion, and glanced at Madame Mayer, 
who burst into a laugh. 

“ Moral reflections never sound so especially and ridiculously 
moral as in your mouth, Ugo,” she said. 

“ Why ?” he asked, in an injured tone. 


SARACINESCA. 


67 


I am sure I do not know. Of course, we all would like to 
see Victor Emmanuel in the Quirinal, and Rome the capital of 
a free Italy. Of course we would all like to see it accomplished 
without murder or bloodshed; but somehow, when you put it 
into words, it sounds very absurd.” 

In her brutal fashion Madame Mayer had hit upon a great 
truth, and Del Eerice was very much annoyed. He knew him- 
self to be a scoundrel; he knew Madame Mayer to be a woman 
of very commonplace intellect; he wondered why he was not 
able to deceive her more effectually. He was often able to 
direct her, he sometimes elicited from her some expression of 
admiration at his astuteness; but in spite of his best efforts, 
she saw through him and understood him better than he liked. 

I am sorry,” he said, that what is honourable should sound 
ridiculous when it comes from me. I like to think sometimes 
that you believe in me.” 

“ Oh, I do,” protested Donna Tullia, with a sudden change 
of manner. I was only laughing. I think you are really in 
earnest. Only, you know, nowadays, it is not the fashion to 
utter moralities in a severe tone, with an air of conviction. A 
little dash of cynicism — you know, a sort of half sneer — is so 
much more chic; it gives a much higher idea of the morality, 
because it conveys the impression that it is utterly beyond you. 
Ask Gouache ” 

By all means,” said the artist, squeezing a little more red 
from the tube upon his palette, ‘^one should always sneer at 
what one cannot reach. The fox, you remember, called the 
grapes sour. He was probably right, for he is the most intelli- 
gent of animals.” 

I would like to hear what Giovanni had to say about those 
grapes,” remarked Donna Tullia. 

“ Oh, he sneered in the most fashionable way,” answered Del 
Eerice. “ He would have pleased you immensely. He said that 
he would be ruined by a change of government, and that he 
thought it his duty to fight against it. He talked a great deal 
about the level of the Tiber, and landed property, and the 
duties of gentlemen. And he ended by saying he would make 
the best of any change that happened to come about, like a 
thoroughgoing egotist, as he is!” 

“ I would like to hear what you think of Don Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca,” said Gouache; “and then I would like to hear what 
he tliinks of you.” 

“I can tell you both,” answered Del Eerice. “I think of 
him that he is a thorough aristocrat, full of prejudices and 
money, unwilling to sacrifice his convictions to his wealth or 
his wealth to his convictions, intelligent in regard to his own 


68 


SARACINESCA. 


interests and blind to those of others, imbued with a thousand 
and one curious feudal notions, and overcome with a sense ol 
his own importance/^ 

‘‘ And what does he think of you ? asked Anastase, working 
busily. 

‘‘ Oh, it is very simple,” returned Del Ferice, with a laugh. 
“ He thinks I am a great scoundrel.” 

“Eeally! How strange ! I should not have said that.” 

What ? That Del Ferice is a scoundrel ? ” asked Donna 
Tullia, laughing. 

No; I should not have said it,” repeated Anastase, thought- 
fully. “ I should say that our friend Del Ferice is a man of 
the most profound philanthropic convictions, nobly devoting 
his life to the pursuit of liberty, fraternity, and equality.” 

Do you really think so ?” asked Donna Tullia, with a half- 
comic glance at Ugo, who looked uncommonly grave. 

** Madame,” returned Gouache, “ I never permit myself to 
think otherwise of any of my friends.” 

“Upon my word,” remarked Del Ferice, “I am delighted at 
the compliment, my dear fellow, but I must infer that your 
judgment of your friends is singularly limited.” 

“ Perhaps,” answered Gouache. “ But the number of my 
friends is not large, and I myself am very enthusiastic. I look 
forward to the day when ‘ liberty, equality, and fraternity ^ shall 
be inscribed in liters of flame, in the most expensive Bengal 
lights if you please, over the porte-cochere of every palace in 
Kome, not to mention the churches. I look forward to that 
day, but I have not the slightest expectation of ever seeing it. 
Moreover, if it ever comes, I will pack up my palette and 
brushes and go somewhere else by the nearest route.” 

“ Good heavens. Gouache ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia ; “how 
can you talk like that? It is really dreadfully irreverent to 
jest about our most sacred convictions, or to say that we desire 
to see those words written over the doors of our churches !” 

“ I am not jesting. I worship Victor Hugo. I love to dream 
of the universal republic — it has immense artistic attractions — 
the flerce yelling crowd, the savage faces, the red caps, the ter- 
rible maenad women urging the brawny ruffians on to shed more 
blood, the lurid light of biirning churches, the pale and trem- 
bling victims dragged beneath the poised knife, — ah, it is 
superb, it has stupendous artistic capabilities ! But for my- 
self— bah ! I am a good Catholic — I wish nobody any harm, for 
life is very gay after all.” 

At this remarkable exposition of Anastase Gouache’s views 
in regard to the utility of revolutions, Del Ferice laughed 
loudly ; but Anastase remained perfectly grave, for he was per^ 


SARACINESCA. 


69 


fectly sincere. Del Ferice, to whom the daily whispered talk 
of revolution in Donna Tullia’s circle was mere child^s play, 
was utterly inditferent, and suffered himself to be amused by 
the young artist’s vagaries. But Donna Tullia, who longed to 
see herself the centre of a real plot, thought that she was being 
laughed at, and pouted her red lips and frowned her displeasure. 

“ I believe you have no convictions ! ” she said angrily. 
“ While we are risking our lives and fortunes for the good 
cause, you sit here in your studio dreaming of barricades and 
guillotines, merely as subjects for pictures — you even acknow- 
ledge that in case we produce a revolution you would go away.” 

“ Not without finishing this portrait,” returned Anastase, 
quite unmoved. It is an exceedingly good likeness ; and in 
case you should ever disappear — you know people sometimes 
do in revolutions — or if by any unlucky accident your beautiful 
neck should chance beneath that guillotine you just mentioned, 
— why, then, this canvas would be the most delightful souvenir 
of many pleasant mornings,. would it not ?” 

‘‘ You are incorrigible,” said Donna Tullia, with a slight 
laugh. ‘‘ You cannot be serious for a moment.” 

“ It is very hard to paint you when your expression changes 
so often,” replied Anastase, calmly. 

“ I am not in a good humour for sitting to you this morning. 
I wish you would amuse me, Del Ferice. You generally can.” 

“ I thought politics amused you ” 

“ They interest me. But Gouache’s ideas are detestable.” 

“Will you not give us some of your own, Madame?” in- 
quired the painter, stepping back from his canvas to get a bet- 
ter view of his work. 

“ Oh, mine are very simple,” answered Donna Tullia. “ Vic- 
tor Emmanuel, Garibaldi, and a free press.” 

“ A combination of monarchy, republicanism, and popular 
education — not very interesting,” remarked Gouache, still eye- 
ing his picture. 

“No; there would be nothing for you to paint, except por- 
traits of the liberators ” 

“ There is a great deal of that done. I have seen them in 
every cafe in the north of Italy,” interrupted the artist. “ I 
would like to paint Garibaldi. He has a fine head.” 

“ I will ask him to sit to you when he comes here.” 

“ When he comes I shall be here no longer,” answered Gou- 
ache. “ They will whitewash the Oorso, they will make a res- 
taurant of the Colosseum, and they will hoist the Italian fiag 
on the cross of St. Peter’s. Then I will go to Constantinople; 
there will still be some years before Turkey is modernised.” 

“ Artists are hopeless people,” said Del Ferice. “ They are 


70 


SARACIN-ESCA. 


utterly illogical, and it is impossible to deal with them. If you 
like old cities, why do you not like old women ? Why would 
you not rather paint Donna Tullia^s old Countess than Donna 
Tullia herself ? 

^ That is precisely the opposite case,'^ replied Anastase, 
quietly. “ The works of man are never so beautiful as when 
they are falling to decay; the works of God are most beautiful 
when they are young. You might as well say that because wine 
improves with age, therefore horses do likewise. The faculty 
of comparison is lacking in your mind, my dear Del Ferice, as 
it is generally lacking in the minds of true patriots. Great 
reforms and great revolutions are generally brought about by 
people of fierce and desperate convictions, like yours, who go to 
extreme lengths, and never know when to stop. The quintes- 
sence of an artisFs talent is precisely that faculty of comparison, 
that gift of knowing when the thing he is doing corresponds 
^as nearly as he can make it with the thing he has imagined.” 

There was no tinge of sarcasm in Gouache’s voice as he im- 
puted to Del Ferice the savage enthusiasm of a revolutionist. 
But when Gouache, who was by no means calm by nature, said 
anything in a particularly gentle tone, there was generally a 
sting in it, and Del Ferice refiected upon the mean traffic in 
stolen information by which he got his livelihood, and was 
ashamed. Somehow, too, Donna Tullia felt that the part she 
fancied herself playing was contemptible enough when com- 
pared with the hard work, the earnest purpose, and the re- 
markable talent of the young artist. But* though she felt her 
inferiority, she would have died rather than own it, even to Del 
Ferice. She knew that for months she had talked with Del 
Ferice, with Valdarno, with Casalverde, even with the melan- 
choly and ironical Spicca, concerning conspiracies and deeds of 
darkness of all kinds, and she knew that she and they might go 
on talking for ever in the same strain without producing the 
smallest effect on events; but she never to the very end relin- 
quished the illusion she cherished so dearly, that she was really 
and truly a conspirator, and that if any one of her light-headed 
acquaintance betrayed the next, they might all be ordered out 
of Eome in four-and-twenty hours, or might even disappear 
into that long range of dark buildings to the left of the colon- 
nade of St. Peter’s, martyrs to the cause of their own self-im- 
portance and semi-theatrical vanity. There were many knots 
of such self-fancied conspirators in those days, whose wildest 
deed of daring was to whisper across a glass of champagne in 
a ball-room, or over a tumbler of Velletri wine in a Trasteve- 
rine cellar, the magic and awe-inspiring words, “ Viva Garibaldi ! 
Viva Vittorio ! ” They accomplished nothing. The same men 


SARACINESCA. 


71 


and women are now grumbling and regretting the flesh-pots of 
the old Government, or whispering in impotent discontent 
“Viva la Repubblica ! and they and their descendants will go 
on whispering something to each other to the end of time, 
while mightier hands than theirs are tearing down empires and 
building up irresistible coalitions, and drawing red pencil-marks 
through the geography of Europe. 

The conspirators of those days accomplished nothing after 
Pius IX. returned from Gaeta; the only men who were of any 
use at all were those who, like Del Ferice, had sources of secret 
information, and basely sold their scraps of news. But even 
they were of small importance. The moment had not come, 
and all the talking and whispering and tale-bearing in the 
world could not hasten events, nor change their course. But 
Donna Tullia was puffed up with a sense of her importance, 
and Del Ferice managed to attract just as much attention to 
his harmless chatter about progress as would permit him un- 
disturbed to carry on his lucrative traffic in secret information. 

Donna Tullia, who was not in the least artistic, and who by 
no means appreciated the merits of the portrait Gouache was 
painting, was very far from comprehending his deflnition of 
artistic comparison; but Del Ferice understood it very well. 
Donna Tullia had much foreign blood in her veins, like most of 
her class; but Del Ferice’s obscure descent was in all probabil- 
ity purely Italian, and he had inherited the common instinct 
in matters of art which is a part of the Italian birthright. He 
had recognised Gouache’s wonderful talent, and had first 
brought Donna Tullia to his studio — a matter of little difficulty 
when she had learned that the young artist had already a repu- 
tation. It pleased her to fancy that by telling him to paint her 
portrait she might pose as his patroness, and hereafter reap the 
reputation of having influenced his career. For fashion, and 
the desire to be the representative of fashion, led Donna Tullia 
hither and thither as a lapdog is led by a string; and there is 
nothing more in the fashion than to patronise a fashionable 
portrait-painter. 

But after Anastase Gouache had thus delivered himself of 
his views upon Del Ferice and the faculty of artistic compari- 
son, the conversation languished, and Donna Tullia grew rest- 
less. “ She had sat enough,” she said ; and as her expression 
was not favourable to the portrait, Anastase did not contradict 
her, but presently suffered her to depart in peace with her de- 
voted adorer at her heels. And when they were gone, Anastase 
lighted a cigarette, and took a piece of charcoal and sketched 
a caricature of Donna Tullia in a liberty cap, in a fine theat- 
rical attitude, invoking the aid of Del Ferice, who appeared as 


n 


SARACllfESCA. 


the Angel of Death, with the guillotine in the background. 
Having put the finishing touches to this work of art, Anastase 
locked his studio and went to breakfast, humming an air from 
the Belle Helene.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Corona reached home she went to her own small bou- 
doir, with the intention of remaining there for an hour if she 
could do so without being disturbed. There was a prospect of 
this; for on inquiry she ascertained that her husband was not 
yet dressed, and his dressing took a very long time. He had a 
cosmopolitan valet, who alone of living men understood the 
art of fitting the artificial and the natural Astrardente together. 
Corona believed this man to be an accomplished scoundrel; but 
she never had any proof that he was anything worse than a 
very clever servant, thoroughly unscrupulous where his master’s 
interests or his own were concerned. The old Duca believed 
in him sincerely and trusted him alone, feeling that since he 
could never be a hero in his valet’s eyes, he might as well take 
advantage of that misfortune in order to gain a confidant. 

Corona found three or four letters upon her table, and sat 
down to read them, letting her fur mantle drop to the floor, 
and putting her small feet out towards the fire, for the pave- 
ment of the church had been cold. 

She was destined to pass an eventful day, it seemed. One 
of the letters was from Giovanni Saracinesca. It was the first 
time he had ever written to her, and she was greatly surprised 
on finding his name at the foot of the page. He wrote a strong 
clear handwriting, entirely without adornment of penmanship, 
close and regular and straight: there was an air of determina- 
tion about it which was sympathetic, and a conciseness of 
expression which startled Corona, as though she had heard the 
man himself speaking to her. 

I write, dear Duchessa, because I covet your good opinion, 
and my motive is therefore before all things an interests one. 
I would not have you think that I had idly asked your advice 
about a thing so important to me as my marriage, in order to 
discard your counsel at the first opportunity. There was too 
much reason in the view you took of the matter to admit of 
my not giving your opinion all the weight I could, even if I 
had not already determined upon the very course you advised. 
Circumstances have occurred, however, which have almost in- 
duced me to change my mind. I have had an interview with 
my father, who has put the matter very plainly before me. I 
hardly know how to tell you this, but I feel that I owe it to you 


SARACINESCA. 


73 


to explain myself, however much you may despise me for what 
I am going to say. It is very simple, nevertheless. My father 
has informed me that by my conduct I have caused my name 
to be coupled in the mouth of the gossips with that of a person 
very dear to me, but whom I am unfortunately prevented from 
marrying. He has convinced me that I owe to this lady, who, 
I confess, takes no interest whatever in me, the only reparation 
possible to be made — that of taking a wife, and thus publicly 
demonstrating that there was never any truth in what has been 
said. ^ As a marriage will probably be forced upon me some 
day, it is as well to let things take their course at once, in order 
that a step so disagreeable to myself may at least distantly 
profit one whom I love in removing me from the appearance of 
being a factor in her life. The gossip about me has never 
reached your ears, but if it should, you will be the better able 
to understand my position. 

‘^Do not think, therefore, that if I do not follow your advice 
I am altogether inconsistent, or that I wantonly presumed to 
consult you without any intention of being guided by you. 
Forgive me also this letter, which I am impelled to write from 
somewhat mean motives of vanity, in the hope of not altogether 
forfeiting your opinion; and especially I beg you to believe 
that I am at all times the most obedient of your servants, 

Giovanni Saracinesca.” 

Of what use was it that she had that morning determined to 
forget Giovanni, since he had the power of thus bringing him- 
self before her by means of a scrap of paper ? Corona’s hand 
closed upon the letter convulsively, and for a moment the room 
seemed to swim around her. 

So there was some one whom he loved, some one for whose 
fair name he was willing to sacrifice himself even to the extent 
of marrying against his v/ill. Some one, too, who not only did 
not love him, but took no interest whatever in him. Those 
were his own words, and they must be true, for he never lied. 
That accounted for his accompanying Donna Tullia to the pic- 
nic. He was going to marry her after all. To save the woman 
he loved so hopelessly from the mere suspicion of being loved 
by him, he was going to tie himself for life to the first who 
would marry him. That would never prevent the gossips from 
saying that he loved this other woman as much as ever. It 
could do her no great harm, since she took no interest whatever 
in him. Who could she be, this cold creature, whom even 
Giovanni could not move to interest ? It was absurd — the 
letter was absurd — the whole thing was absurd ! Hone but a 
madman would think of pursuing such a course; and why 
should he think it necessary to confide his plans— his very fool- 


74 


SARACIITESCA. 


ish plans — to her, Corona d’Astrardente, — why ? Ah, Giovanni, 
how different things might have been ! 

Corona rose angrily from her seat and leaned against the 
broad chimney-piece, and looked at the clock — it was nearly 
mid-day. He might marry whom he pleased, and be welcome — 
what was it to her ? He might marry and sacrifice himself if 
he pleased — what was it to her ? 

She thought of her own life. She, too, had sacrificed herself; 
she, too, had tied herself for life to a man she despised in her 
heart, and she had done it for an object she had thought good. 
She looked steadily at the clock, for she would not give way, 
nor bend her head and cry bitter tears again; but the tears 
were in her eyes, nevertheless. 

“ Giovanni, you must not do it — you must not do it!” Her 
lips formed the words without speaking them, and repeated the 
thought again and again. Her heart beat fast and her cheeks 
fiushed darkly. She spread out the crumpled letter and read it 
once more. As she read, the most intense curiosity seized her 
to know who this woman might be whom Giovanni so loved; 
and with her curiosity there was a new feeling — an utterly 
hateful and hating passion — something so strong, that it sud- 
denly dried her tears and sent the blood from her cheeks back 
to her heart. Her white hand was clenched, and her eyes were 
on fire. Ah, if she could only find that woman he loved! if 
she could only see her dead — dead with Giovanni Saracinesca 
there upon the floor before her! As she thought of it, she 
stamped her foot upon the thick carpet, and her face grew 
paler. She did not know what it was that she felt, but it com- 
pletely overmastered her. Padre Filippo would be pleased, she 
thought, for she knew how in that moment she hated Giovanni 
Saracinesca. 

With a sudden impulse she again sat down and opened the 
letter next to her hand. It was a gossiping epistle from a friend 
in Paris, full of stories of the day, exclamations upon fashion 
and all kinds of emptiness; she was about to throw it down 
impatiently and take up the next when her eyes .caught 
Giovanni’s name. 

Of course it is not true that Saracinesca is to marry Madame 
Mayer, ...” were the words she read. But that was all. There 
chanced to have been just room for the sentence at the foot of 
the page, and by the time her friend had turned over the leaf, 
she had already forgotten what she had written, and was run- 
ning on with a different idea. It seemed as though Corona 
were haunted by Giovanni at every turn; but she had not 
reached the end yet, for one letter still remained. She tore 
open the envelope, and found that the contents consisted of a 
few lines penned in a small and irregular hand, without signa- 


SARACINESOA. 


75 


ture. There was an air of disguise about the whole, which was 
unpleasant; it was written upon a common sort of paper, and 
had come through the city post. It ran as follows: — 

‘‘The Duchessa d’Astrardente reminds us of the fable of the 
dog in the horse^s manger, for she can neither eat herself nor 
let others eat. She will not accept Don Giovanni Saracinesca^s 
devotion, but she effectually prevents him from fulfilling his 
engagements to others.” 

If Corona had been in her ordinary mood, she would very 
likely have laughed at the anonymous communication. She had 
formerly received more than one passionate declaration, not 
signed indeed, but accompanied always by some clue to the 
identity of the writer, and she had carelessly thrown them into 
the fire. But there was no such indication here whereby she 
might discover who it was who had undertaken to criticise her, 
to cast upon her so unjust an accusation. Moreover, she was 
very angry and altogether thrown out of her usually calm 
humour. Her first impulse was to go to her husband, and in 
the strength of her innocence to show him the letter. Then she 
laughed bitterly as she thought how the selfish old dandy would 
scoff at her sensitiveness, and how utterly incapable he would be 
of discovering the offender or of punishing the offence. Then 
again her face was grave, and she asked herself whether it was 
true that she was innocent; whether she were not really to be 
blamed, if perhaps she had really prevented Giovanni from 
marrying Donna Tullia. 

But if that were true, she must herself be the woman he 
spoke of in his letter. Any other woman would have suspected 
as much. Corona went to the window, and for an instant there 
was a strange light of pleasure in her face. Then she grew 
very thoughtful, and her whole mood changed. She could not 
conceive it possible that Giovanni so loved her as to marry for 
her sake. Besides, no one could ever have breathed a word of 
him in connection with herself — until this abominable anony- 
mous letter was written. 

The thought that she might, after all, be the “person very 
dear to him,” the one who “took no interest whatever in him,” 
had nevertheless crossed her mind, and had given her for one 
moment a sense of wild and indescribable pleasure. Then she 
remembered what she had felt before ; how angry, how utterly 
beside herself, she had been at the thought of another woman 
being loved by him, and she suddenly understood that she was 
jealous of her. The very thought revived in her the belief that 
it was not she herself who was thus influencing the life of 
Giovanni Saracinesca, but another, and she sat silent and pale. 

Of course it was another! What had she done, what word 
had she spoken, whereby the world might pretend to believe 


76 


SARACINESCA. 


that she controlled this man’s actions ? Fulfilling his engage- 
ments/’ the letter said, too. It must have been written % an 
ignorant person — by some one who had no idea of what was 
passing, and who wrote at random, hoping to touch a sensitive 
chord, to do some harm, to inflict some pain, in petty vengeance 
for a fancied slight. But in her heart, though she crushed 
down the instinct, she would have believed the anonymous jest 
well founded, for the sake of believing, too, that Giovanni 
Saracinesca was ready to lay his life at her feet — although in 
that belief she would have felt that she was committing a mor- 
tal sin. 

She went back to her interview that morning with Padre 
Filippo, and thought over all she had said and all he had 
answered ; how she had been willing to admit the possibility of 
Giovanni’s love, and how sternly the confessor had ruled down 
the clause, and told her there should never arise such a doubt in 
her mind ; how she had scorned herself for being capable of 
seeking love where there was none, and how she had sworn that 
there should be no perhaps in the matter. It seemed very hard 
to do right, but she would try to see where the right lay. In 
the first place, she should burn the anonymous letter, and never 
condescend to think of it; and she should also burn Giovanni’s, 
because it would be an injustice to him to keep it. She looked 
once more at the unsigned, ill-written page, and, with a little 
scornful laugh, threw it from where she sat into the fire with 
its envelope; then she took Giovanni’s note, and would have 
done the same, hut her hand trembled, and the crumpled bit of 
paper fell upon the hearth. She rose from her chair quickly, 
and took it up again, kneeling before the fire, like some beauth 
ful dark priestess of old feeding the flames of a sacred altar. 
She smoothed the paper out once more, and once more read 
the even characters, and looked long at the signature, and back 
again to the writing. 

^‘This lady, who, I confess, takes no interest whatever in 

me. ...” 

‘^How could he say it I” she exclaimed aloud. “Oh, if I 
knew who she was ! ” With an impatient movement she thrust 
the letter among the coals, and watched the fire curl it and 
burn it, from white to brown and from brown to black, till it 
was all gone. Then she rose to her feet and left the room. 

Her husband certainly did not guess that the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente had spent so eventful a morning; and if any one 
had told him that his wife had been through a dozen stages of 
emotion, he would have laughed, and would have told his in- 
formant that Corona was not of the sort who experience violent 
passions. That evening they went to the opera together, and 
the old man was in an unusually cheerful humour. A new 


SARACIKESCA. 


77 


coat had just arrived from Paris, and the padding had attained 
a higher degree of scientific perfection than heretofore. Corona . 
also looked more beautiful than even her husband ever remem- ' 
bered to have seen her; she wore a perfectly simple gown of 
black satin without the smallest relief of colour, and upon her 
neck the famous Astrardente necklace of pearls, three strings 
of even thickness, each jewel exquisitely white and just lighted 
in its shadow by a delicate pink tinge — such a necklace as an 
empress might have worn. In the raven masses of her hair 
there was not the least ornament, nor did any flower enhance 
the rich blackness of its silken coils. It would be impossible 
to imagine greater simplicity than Corona showed in her dress, I 
but it would be hard to conceive of any woman who possessed | 
by virtue of severe beauty a more indubitable right to dispense I 
with ornament. 

The theatre was crowded. There was a performance of 
Norma,^^ for which several celebrated artists had been engaged 
— an occurrence so rare in Rome, that the theatre was abso- 
lutely full. The Astrardente box was upon the second tier, 
just where the amphitheatre began to curve. There was room 
in it for four or five persons to see the stage. 

The Duchessa and her husband arrived in the middle of the 
first act, and remained alone until it was over. Corona was 
extremely fond of “Norma,” and after she was seated never 
took her eyes from the stage. iVstrardente, on the other hand, 
maintained his character as a man of no illusions, and swept 
the house with his small opera-glass. The instrument itself 
was like him, and would have been appropriate for a fine lady 
of the First Empire; it was of mother-of-pearl, made very 
small and light, the metal-work upon it heavily gilt and orna- 
mented with turquoises. The old man glanced from time to 
time at the stage, and then again settled himself to the study 
of the audience, which interested him far more than the opera. 

“ Every human being you ever heard of is here,” he remarked 
at the end of the first act. “ Really I should think you would 
find it worth while to look at your magnificent fellow-creatures, 
my dear.” 

Corona looked slowly round the house. She had excellent 
eyes, and never used a glass. She saw the same faces she had 
seen for five years, the same occasional flash of beauty, the 
same average number of over-dressed women, the same paint, 
the same feathers, the same jewels. She saw opposite to her 
Madame Mayer, with the elderly countess whom she patronised 
for the sake of deafness, and found convenient as a sort of 
flying chaperon. The countess could not hear much of the 
music, but she was fond of the world and liked to be seen, and 
she could not hear at all what Del Ferice said in an undertone 


78 


SARACINESCA. 


to Madame Mayer. Sufficient to her were the good things of 
the day; the rest was in no way her business. There was Val- 
darno in the club-box, with a knot of other men of his own 
stamp. There were the Rocca, mother and daughter and son 
— a boy of eighteen — and a couple of men in the back of the 
box. Everybody was there, as her husband had said; and as 
she dropped her glance toward the stalls, she was aware of 
Giovanni Saracinesca’s black eyes looking anxiously up to her. 
A faint smile crossed her serene face, and almost involuntarily 
she nodded to him and then looked away. Many men were 
watching her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent 
her head to each; but there was no smile for any save Giovanni, 
and when she looked again to where he had been standing with 
his back to the stage, he was gone from his place. 

‘‘ They are the same old things,’^ said Astrardente, “but they 
are still very amusing. Madame Mayer always seems to get the 
wrong man into her box. She would give all those diamonds 
to have Giovanni Saracinesca instead of that newsmonger 
fellow. If he comes here I will send him across.” 

“ Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,” suggested Corona. 

“He is a good lapdog — a very good dog,” answered her 
husband. “ He cannot bite at all, and his bark is so soft that 
you would take it for the mewing of a kitten. He fetches and 
carries admirably.” 

“ Those are good points, but not interesting ones. He is 
very tiresome with his eternal puns and insipid compliments, 
and his gossip.” 

“ But he is so very harmless,” answered Astrardente, with 
compassionate scorn. “ He is incapable of doing an injury. 
Donna Tullia is wise in adopting him as her slave. She would 
not be so safe with Saracinesca, for instance. If you feel the 
need of an admirer, my dear, take Del Ferice. I have no 
objection to him.” 

“ Why should I need admirers ? ” asked Corona, quietly. 

“I was merely jesting, my lo.ve. Is not your own husband 
the greatest of your admirers, and your devoted slave into the 
bargain ? ” Old Astrardente^s face twisted itself into the sem- 
blance of a smile, as he leaned towards his young wife, lowering 
his cracked, voice to a thin whisper. He was genuinely in love 
with her, and lost no opportunity of telling her so. She smiled 
a little wearily. 

“ You are very good to me,” she said. She had often won- 
dered how it was that this aged creature, who had never been 
faithful to any attachment in his life for five months, did really 
seem to love her just as he had done for five years. It was 
perhaps the greatest triumph she could have attained, though 
she never thought of it in that light; but though she could 


SAKACINESCA. 


79 


not respect her husband very much, she could not think un- 
kindly of him — for, as she said, he was very good to her. She 
often reproached herself because he wearied her; she believed 
that she should have taken more pleasure in his admiration. 

cannot help being good to you, my angel,’^ he said. 

How could I be otherwise ? Do 1 not love you most passion- 
ately?’^ 

“ Indeed, I think so,” Corona answered. As she spoke there 
was a knock at the door. Her heart leaped wildly, and she 
turned a little pale. 

“The devil seize these visitors !” muttered old Astrardente, 
annoyed beyond measure at being interrupted when making 
love to his wife. “ I suppose we must let them in ? ” 

“I suppose so,” assented the Duchessa, with forced calm. 
Her husband opened the door, and Giovanni Saracinesca 
entered, hat in hand. 

“Sit down,” said Astrardente, rather harshly. 

“I trust I am not disturbing you,” replied Giovanni, still 
standing. He was somewhat surprised at the old man’s inhos- 
pitable tone. 

“Oh no; not in the least,” said the latter, quickly regaining 
his composure. “Pray sit down; the act will begin in a 
moment.” 

Giovanni established himself upon the chair immediately 
behind the Duchessa. He had come to talk, and he anticipated 
that during the second act he would have an excellent oppor- 
tunity. 

“ I hear you enjoyed yourselves yesterday,” said Corona, turn- 
ing her head so as to speak more easily. 

“ Indeed ! ” Giovanni answered, and a shade of annoyance 
crossed his face. “ And who was your informant, Duchessa ? ” 

“Donna Tullia. I met her this morning. She said you 
amused them all — kept them laughing the whole day.” 

“ What an extraordinary statement ! ” exclaimed Giovanni. 
“ It shows how one may unconsciously furnish matter for 
mirth. I do not recollect having talked much to any one. It 
was a noisy party enough, however.” 

“ Perhaps Donna Tullia spoke ironically,” suggested Corona. 
“ Do you like ‘ Norma ’ ? ” 

“Oh yes; one opera is as good as another. There goes the 
curtain.” 

The act began, and for some minutes no one in the box 
spoke. Presently there was a burst of orchestral music. Gio- 
vanni leaned forward so that his face was close behind Corona. 
He could speak without being heard by Astrardente. 

“Did you receive my letter?” he asked. Corona made an 
almost imperceptible inclination of her head, but did not speak. 


80 


SARACINESCA. 


you understand' my position he asked again.' He 
could not see her face, and for some seconds she made no sign; 
at last she moved her head again, but this time to express a 
negative. 

It is simple enough, it seems to me,” said Giovanni, bend- 
ing his brows. 

Corona found that by turning a little she could still look at 
the stage, and at the same time speak to the man behind, her. 

How can I judge ? ” she said. “ You have not told me all. 
Why do you ask me to judge whether you are right ? ” 

I could not do it if you thought me wrong,” he answered 
shortly. 

The Duchessa suddenly thought of that other woman for 
whom the man who asked her advice was willing to sacrifice 
his life. 

^^You attach an astonishing degree of importance to my 
opinion,” she said very coldly, and turned her head from him. 

“ There is no one so well able to give an opinion,” said Gio- 
vanni, insisting. 

Corona was offended. She interpreted the speech to mean 
that since she had sacrificed her life to the old man on the op- 
posite side of the box, she was able to judge whether Giovanni 
would do wisely in making a marriage of convenience, for the 
sake of an end which even to her mind seemed visionary. She 
turned quickly upon him, and there was an angry gleam in her 
eyes. 

Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,” she said 
haughtily. 

Giovanni was too much astonished to answer her at once. 
He had indeed not intended the least reference to her marriage. 

“ You have entirely misunderstood me,” he said presently. 

Then you must express yourself more clearly,” she replied. 
She would have felt very guilty to be thus talking to Giovanni, 
as she would not have talked before her husband, had she not 
felt that it was upon Giovanni’s business, and that the matter 
discussed in no way concerned herself. As for Saracinesca, he 
was in a dangerous position, and was rapidly losing his self- 
control. He was too near to her, his heart was beating too 
fast, the blood was throbbing in his temples, and he was stung 
by being misunderstood. 

It is not possible for me to express myself more clearly,” 
he answered. I am suffering for having told you too little 
when I dare not tell you all. I make no reference to your 
marriage when I speak to you of my own. Forgive me; I will 
not refer to the matter again.” 

Corona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half of 
pleasure, and the lights of the theatre seemed moving before 


SARACINESCA. 


81 


her uncertainly, as things look when one falls from a height. 
Almost unconsciously she spoke, hardly knowing that she 
turned her head, and that her dark eyes rested upon Giovanni’s 
pale face. 

“ And yet there must he some reason why you tell me that 
little, and why you do not tell me more.” When she had 
spoken, she would have given all the world to have taken back 
her words. It was too late. Giovanni answered in a low thick 
voice that sounded as though he were choking, his face grew 
white, and his teeth seemed almost to chatter as though he 
were cold, but his eyes shone like black stars in the shadow of 
the box. 

There is every reason. You are the woman I love.” 

Corona did not move for several seconds, as though not com- 
prehending what he had said. Then she suddenly shivered, 
and her eyelids drooped as she leaned back in her chair. Her 
fingers relaxed their tight hold upon her fan, and the thing fell 
rattling upon the floor of the box. 

Old Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, being 
annoyed at Giovanni’s visit, and much interested in the pro- 
ceedings of Madame Mayer in the box opposite, heard the noise, 
and stooped with considerable alacrity to pick up the fan which 
lay at his feet. 

“ You are not well, my love,” he said quickly, as he observed 
his wife’s unusual pallor. 

It is nothing; it will pass,” she murmured, with a terrible 
effort. Then, as though she had not said enough, she added. 

There must be a draught here; I have a chill.” 

Giovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by the 
sense of his own folly and rashness, as well as by the shock of 
having so miserably failed to keep the secret he dreaded to re- 
veal. On hearing Corona’s voice, he rose suddenly, as from a 
dream. 

Forgive me,” he said hurriedly, I have just remembered 
a most important engagement ” 

“Ho not mention it,” said Astrardente, sourly. Giovanni 
bowed to the Duchessa and left the box. She did not look at 
him as he went away. 

“We had better go home, my angel,” said the old man. 
“You have got a bad chill.” 

“ Oh no, I would rather stay. It is nothing, and the best 
part of the opera is to come.” Corona spoke quietly enough. 
Her strong nerves had already recovered from the shock she 
had experienced, and she could command her voice. She did 
not want to go home; on the contrary, the brilliant lights and 
the music served for a time to soothe her. If there had been 
a ball that night she would have gone to it; she would have 


82 


SARACINESCA. 


done anything that would take her thoughts from herself. 
Her husband looked at her curiously. The suspicion crossed 
his mind that Hon Giovanni had said something which had 
either frightened or offended her, but on second thoughts the 
theory seemed absurd. He regarded Saracinesca as little more 
than a mere acquaintance of his wife^s. 

As you please, my love,^^ he answered, drawing his chair a 
little nearer to hers. I am glad that fellow is gone. We can 
talk at our ease now.'’^ 

‘‘Yes; I am glad he is gone. We can talk now,” repeated 
Corona, mechanically. 

“ I thought his excuse slightly conventional, to say the least 
of it,” remarked Astrardente. “ An important engagement ! — 
just a little danal. However, any excuse was good enough 
which took him away.” 

“ Hid he say that ? ” asked Corona. “ I did not hear. Of 
course, any excuse would do, as you say.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Giovanni left the theatre at once, alone, and on foot. He was 
very much agitated. He had done suddenly and unawares the 
thing of all others he had determined never to do; his resolu- 
tions had been broken down and carried away as an ineffectual 
barrier is swept to the sea by the floods of spring. His heart 
had spoken in spite of him, and in speaking had silenced every 
prompting of reason. He blamed himself bitterly, as he strode 
out across the dese-rted bridge of SanP Angelo and into the 
broad gloom beyond, where the street widens from the fortress 
to the entrance of the three Borghi: he walked on and on, 
finding at every step fresh reason for self-reproach, and trying 
to understand what he had done. He paused at the end of 
the open piazza and looked down towards the black rushing 
river which he could hear, but hardly see; he turned into the 
silent Borgo Santo Spirito, and passed along the endless wall 
of the great hospital up to the colonnades, and still wandering 
on, he came to the broad steps of St. PetePs and sat down, 
alone in the darkness, at the foot of the stupendous pile. 

He was perhaps not so much to blame as he was willing to 
allow in his just anger against himself. Corona had tempted 
him sorely in that last question she had put to him. She had 
not known, she had not even faintly guessed what she was doing, 
for her own brain was intoxicated with a new and indescribable 
sensation which had left no room for reflection nor for weigh- 
ing the force of words. But Giovanni, who had been willing to 
give up everything, even to his personal liberty, for the sake of 


SARACIKESCA. 


83 


concealing his love, would not allow himself any argument in 
extenuation of what he had done. He had had but very few 
affairs of the heart in his life, and they had been for the most 
part very insignificant, and his experience was limited. Even 
now it never entered his mind to imagine that Corona would 
condone his offence; he felt sure that she was deeply wounded, 
and that his next meeting with her would be a terrible ordeal 
— so terrible, indeed, that he doubted whether he had the cour- 
age to meet her at all. His love was so great, and its object so 
sacred to him, that he hesitated to conceive himself loved in 
return; perhaps if he had been able to understand that Corona 
loved him he would have left Rome for ever, rather than 
trouble her peace by his presence. 

It would have been absolutely different if he had been pay- 
ing court to Donna Tullia, for instance. The feeling that he 
should be justified would have lent him courage, and the cold- 
ness in his own heart would have left his judgment free play. 
He could have watched her calmly, and would have tried to take 
advantage of every mood in the prosecution of his suit. He was 
a very honourable man, but he did not consider marriages of 
propriety and convenience as being at all contrary to the ordi- 
nary standard of social honour, and would have thought himself 
justified in using every means of persuasion in order to win a 
woman whom, upon mature reflection, he had judged suitable 
to become his wife, even though he felt no real love for her. 
That is an idea inherent in most old countries, an idea for 
which Giovanni Saracinesca was certainly in no way responsi- 
ble, seeing that it had been instilled into him from his boyhood. 
Personally he would have preferred to live and die unmarried, 
rather than to take a wife as a matter of obligation towards his 
family; but seeing that he had never seriously loved any woman, 
he had acquired the habit of contemplating such a marriage as 
a probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to be put off as 
long as possible, but to which he would at last yield with a 
good grace. 

But the current of his life had been turned. He was cer- 
tainly not a romantic character, not a man who desired to ex- 
perience the external sensations to be obtained by voluntarily 
creating dramatic events. He loved action, and he had a taste 
for danger, but he had sought both in a legitimate way ; he 
never desired to implicate himself in adventures where the 
feelings were concerned, and hitherto such experiences had not 
fallen in his path. As is usual with such men, when love came 
at last, it came with a strength such as boys of twenty do not 
dream of. The mature man of thirty years, with his strong 
and dominant temper, his carelessness of danger, his high and 
untried ideas of what a true affection should be, resisting the 


84 


SABACINESCA. 


first impressions of the master-passion with the indifference of 
one accustomed to believe that love could not come near his 
life, and was in general a thing to be avoided — a man, more- 
over, who by his individual gifts and by his brilliant position 
was able to command much that smaller men would not dream 
of aspiring to, — such a man, in short, as Giovanni Saracinesca, 
— was not likely to experience love-sickness in a mild degree. 
Proud, despotic, and fiercely unyielding by his inheritance of 
temper, he was outwardly gentle and courteous by acquired 
habit, a man of those whom women easily love and men very 
generally fear. 

He did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect the 
extremes of feeling of which he was eminently capable. He 
had at first felt Coronals infiuence, and her face and voice 
seemed to awaken in him a memory, which was as yet but an 
anticipation, and not a real remembrance. It was as the faint 
perfume of the spring wafted up to a prisoner in some stern 
fortress, as the first gentle sweetness that rose from the en- 
chanted lakes of the cisalpine country to the nostrils of the 
war-hardened Goths as they descended the last snow-slopes in 
their southern wandering — an anticipation that seemed already 
a memory, a looking forward again to something that had been 
already loved in a former state. Giovanni had laughed at him- 
self for it at first, then he had dreaded its growing charm, and 
at the last he had fallen hopelessly under the spell, retaining 
only enough of his former self to make him determined that 
the harm which had come upon himself should not come near 
this woman whom he so adored. 

And behold, at the first provocation, the very first time that 
by a careless word she had fired his blood and set his brain 
throbbing, he had not only been unable to hide what he felt, 
but had spoken such words as he would not have believed he 
could speak — so bluntly, so roughly, that she had almost 
fainted before his very eyes. 

She must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, too, 
she was frightened. It was so rude, so utterly contrary to all 
that was chivalrous to say thus at the first opportunity, “I 
love you — just that and nothing more. Giovanni had never 
thought much about it, but he supposed that men in love, very 
seriously in love, must take a long time to express themselves, 
as is the manner in books; whereas he was horrified at his own 
bluntness in having blurted out rashly such words as could 
never be taken back, as could never even be explained now, he 
feared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all ex- 
planation, perhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness. 

Nobody ever yet explained away the distinct statement “I 
love you,” upon any pretence of a mistake. Giovanni almost 


SARACIKESCA. 


85 


laughed at the idea, and yet he conceived that some kind of 
apology would be necessary, though he could not imagine how 
he was to frame one. He reflected that few women would con- 
sider a declaration, even as sudden as his had been, in the 
light of an insult; but he knew how little cause Corona had 
given him for speaking to her of love, and he judged from her 
manner that she had been either offended or frightened, or 
both, and that he was to blame for it. He was greatly dis- 
turbed, and the sweat stood in great drops upon his forehead 
as he sat there upon the steps of St. Peter’s in the cold night 
wind. He remained nearly an hour without changing his posi- 
tion, and then at last he rose and slowly retraced his steps, and 
went home by narrow streets, avoiding the theatre and the 
crowd of carriages that stood before it. 

He had almost determined to go away for a time, and to let 
his absence speak for his contrition. But he had reckoned 
upon his former self, and he doubted now whether he had the 
strength to leave Borne. The most that seemed possible was 
that he should keep out of Corona’s way for a few days, until 
she should have recovered from the shock of the scene in the 
theatre. After that he would go to her and tell her quite 
simply that he was very sorry, but that he had been unable to 
control himself. It would soon be over. She would not refuse 
to speak to him, he argued, for fear of attracting the attention 
of the gossips and making an open scandal. She would per- 
haps tell him to avoid her, and her words would be few and 
haughty, but she would speak to him, nevertheless. 

Giovanni went to bed. The next day he gave out that he 
had a touch of fever, and remained in his own apartments. 
His father, who was passionately attached to him, in spite of 
his rough temper and hasty speeches, came and spent most of 
the day with him, and in the intervals of his kindly talk, 
marched up and down the room, swearing that Giovanni was 
no more ill than he was himself, and that he had acquired his 
accursed habit of staying in bed upon his travels. As Gio- 
vanni had never before been known to spend twenty-four hours 
in bed for any reason whatsoever, the accusation was unjust; 
but he only smiled and pretended to argue the case for the sake 
of pleasing the old prince. He really felt exceedingly uncom- 
fortable, and would have been glad to be left alone at any 
price; but there was nothing for it but to pretend to be ill in 
body, when he was really sick at heart, and he remained ob- 
stinately in bed the whole day. On the following morning he 
declared his intention of going out of town, and by an early 
train he left the city. No one saw Giovanni again until the 
evening of the Frangipani ball. 

Meanwhile it would have surprised him greatly to know that 


86 


SARACIN'ESCA, 


Corona looked for him in vain wherever she went, and that, 
not seeing him, she grew silent and pale, and gave short an- 
swers to the pleasant speeches men made her. Every one 
missed Giovanni. He wrote to Valdarno to say that he had 
been suddenly obliged to visit Saracinesca in order to see to 
some details connected with the timber question; but every- 
body wondered why he should have taken himself away in the 
height of the season for so trivial a matter. He had last been 
seen in the Astrardente box at the opera, where he had only 
stayed a few minutes, as Del Ferice was able to testify, having 
sat immediately opposite in the box of Madame Mayer. Del 
Ferice swore secretly that he would find out what was the 
matter; and Donna Tullia abused Giovanni in unmeasured 
terms to a circle of intimate friends and admirers, because he 
had been engaged to dance with her at the Valdarno cotillon, 
and had not even sent word that he could not come. There- 
upon all the men present immediately offered themselves for 
the vacant dance, and Donna Tullia made them draw lots by 
tossing a copper sou in the corner of the ball-room. The man 
who won the toss recklessly threw over the partner he had 
already engaged, and almost had to fight a duel in consequence; 
all of which was intensely amusing to Donna Tullia. Neverthe- 
less, in her heart, she was very angry at Giovanni^s departure. 

But Corona sought him everywhere, and at last heard that he 
had left town, two days after everybody else in Eome had 
known it. She would probably have been very much dis- 
turbed, if she had actually met him within a day or two of 
that fatal evening, but the desire to see him was so great, that 
she entirely overlooked the consequences. For the time being, 
her whole life seemed to have undergone a revolution — she 
trembled at the echo of the words she had heard — she spent 
long hours in solitude, praying with all her strength that she 
might be forgiven for having heard him speak; but the mo- 
ment she left her room, and went out into the world, the domi- 
nant desire to see him again returned. The secret longing of 
her soul was to hear him speak again as he had spoken once. 
She would have gone again to Padre Filippo and told him all; 
but when she was alone in the solitude of her passionate pray- 
ers and self-accusation, she felt that she must fight this tight 
alone, without help of any one ; and when she was in the world, 
she lacked courage to put altogether from her what was so very 
sweet, and her eyes searched unceasingly for tlie dark face she 
loved. But the stirring strength of the mighty passion played 
upon her soul and body in spite of her, as upon an instrument 
of strings; and sometimes the music was gentle and full of 
sweet harmony, but often there were crashes of discord, so that 
she trembled and felt her heart wrung as by torture; then she 


SARACINESCA. 


87 


set her strong lips, and her white fingers wound themselves to- 
gether, and she could have cried aloud, but that her pride for- 
bade her. 

The days came and went, hut Giovanni did not return, and 
Coronals face grew every morning more pale and her eyes every 
night more wistful. Her husband did not understand, but he 
saw that something was the matter, as others saw it, and in his 
quick suspicious humour he connected the trouble in his wife’s 
face with the absence of Giovanni and with the strange chill 
she had felt in the theatre. But Corona d’Astrardente was a 
very brave and strong woman, and she bore what seemed to 
her like the agony of death renewed each day, so calmly that 
those who knew her thought it was but a passing indisposition 
or annoyance, unusual with her, who was never ill nor troubled, 
but yet insignificant. She gave particular attention to the 
gown which her husband had desired she should wear at the 
great ball, and the need she felt for distracting her mind from 
her chief care made society necessary to her. 

The evening of the Frangipani ball came, and all Eome was 
in a state of excitement and expectation. The great old family 
had been in mourning for years, owing to three successive 
deaths, and during all that time the ancient stronghold which 
was called their palace had been closed to the world. For 
some time, indeed, no one of the name had been in Rome — the 
prince and princess preferring to pass the time of mourning in 
the country and in travelling; while the eldest son, now just 
of age, was finishing his academic career at an English TJni- 
versity. But this year the family had returned: there had 
been both dinners and receptions at the palace, and the ball, 
which was to be a sort of festival in honour of the coming of 
age of the heir, was expected as the principal event of the year. 
It was rumoured that there would be nearly thirty rooms opened 
besides the great hall, which was set aside for dancing, and 
that the arrangements were on a scale worthy of a household 
which had endured in its high position for upwards of a thou- 
sand years. It was understood that no distinction had been 
made, in issuing the invitations, between parties in politics or in 
society, and that there would be more people seen there than 
had been collected under one roof for many years. 

The Frangipani did things magnificently, and no one was 
disappointed. The gardens and courts of the palace were brill- 
iantly illuminated; vast suites of apartments were thrown open, 
and lavishly decorated with rare fiowers; the grand staircase 
was lined with footmen in the liveries of the house, standing 
motionless as the guests passed up; the supper was a banquet 
such as is read of in the chronicles of medieval splendour; the 
enormous conservatory in the distant south wing was softly lit 


88 


SARACINESCA. 


by shaded candles concealed among the tropical plants; and 
the ceilings and walls of the great hall itself had been newly 
decorated by famous painters; while the polished wooden floor 
presented an innovation upon the old-fashioned canvas-covered 
brick pavement, not hitherto seen in any Eoman palace. A 
thousand candles, disposed in every variety of chandelier and 
candelabra, shed a soft rich light from far above, and high in 
the gallery at one end an orchestra of Viennese musicians 
played unceasingly. 

As generally happens at very large balls, the dancing began 
late, but numbers of persons had come early in order to survey 
the wonders of the palace at their leisure. Among those who 
arrived soon after ten o^clock was Giovanni Saracinesca, who 
was greeted loudly by all who knew him. He looked pale and 
tired, if his tough nature could ever be said to seem weary; 
but he was in an unusually affable mood, and exchanged words 
with every one he met. Indeed he had been sad for so many 
days that he hardly understood why he felt gay, unless it was 
in the anticipation of once more seeing the woman he loved. 
He wandered through the rooms carelessly enough, but he was 
in reality devoured by impatience, and his quick eyes sought 
Corona’s tall flgure in every direction. But she was not yet 
there, and Giovanni at last came and took his station in one of 
the outer halls, waiting patiently for her arrival. 

While he waited, leaning against one of the marble pillars of 
the door, the throng increased rapidly; but he hardly noticed 
the swelling crowd, until suddenly there was a lull in the 
unceasing talk, and the men and women parted to allow a car- 
dinal to pass out from the inner rooms. With many gracious 
nods and winning looks, the great man moved on, his keen 
eyes embracing every one and everything within the range of 
his vision, his courteous smile seeming intended for each sepa- 
rate individual, and yet overlooking none, nor resting long on 
any, his high brow serene and unbent, his flowing robes falling 
back from his courtly figure, as with his red hat in his hand 
he bowed his way through the bowing crowd. His departure, 
which was quickly followed by that of several other cardinals 
and prelates, was the signal that the dancing would soon 
begin; ajid when he had passed out, the throng of men and 
women pressed more quickly in through the door on their way 
to the ball-room. 

But as the great cardinal’s eye rested on Giovanni Saraci- 
nesca, accompanied by that invariable smile that so many can 
remember well to this day, his delicate hand made a gesture as 
though beckoning to the young man to follow him. Giovanni 
obeyed the summons, and became for the moment the most 
notable man in the room. The two passed out together, and 


SARACINE8CA. 


89 


a moment later were standing in the outer hall. Already the 
torch-bearers were standing without upon the grand staircase, 
and the lackeys were mustering in long files to salute the 
Prime Minister. Just then the master of the house came run- 
ning breathless from within. He had not seen that Cardinal 
Antonelli was taking his leave, and hastened to overtake him, 
lest any breach of etiquette on his part should attract the dis- 
pleasure of the statesman. 

Your Eminence's pardon ! he exclaimed, hurriedly. “ I 
had not seen that your Eminence was leaving us — so early too 
— the Princess feared 

“ Do not speak of it,” answered the Cardinal, in suave tones. 

I am not so strong as I used to be. We old fellows must to 
bed betimes, and leave you young ones to enjoy yourselves. 
No excuses — good night — a beautiful ball — I congratulate you 
on the reopening of your house — good night again. I will 
have a word with Giovanni here before I go down-stairs.” 

He extended his hand to Frangipani, who lifted it respect- 
fully to his lips and withdrew, seeing that he was not wanted. 
He and many others speculated long upon the business which 
engaged his Eminence in close conversation with Giovanni 
Saracinesca, keeping him for more than a quarter of an hour 
in the cold ante-chamber, where the night wind blew in unhin- 
dered from the vast staircase of the palace. As a matter of 
fact, Giovanni was as much surprised as any one. 

“ Where have you been, my friend ?” inquired the Cardinal, 
when they were alone. 

To Saracinesca, your Eminence.” 

And what have you been doing in Saracinesca at this time 
of year ? I hope you are attending to the woods there — you 
have not been cutting timber ? ” 

No one can be more anxious than we to see the woods grow 
thick upon our hills,” replied Giovanni. ^^Your Eminence 
need have no fear.” 

“ Not fqr your estates,” said the great Cardinal, his small 
keen black eyes resting searchingly on Giovannis face. “ But 
I confess I have some fears for yourself.” 

For me, Eminence ? ” repeated Giovanni, in some astonish- 
ment. 

« For you. I have heard with considerable anxiety that 
there is a question of marrying you to Madame Mayer. Such 
a match would not meet with the Holy Father^s approval, nor 
— if I may be permitted to mention my humble self in the 
same breath with our august sovereign — would it be wise in 
my own estimation.” 

Permit me to remark to your Eminence,” answered Gio- 
vanni, proudly, “ that in my house we have never been in the 


90 


SARACIl^ESCA. 


habit of asking advice upon such subjects. Donna Tullia is a 
good Catholic. There can therefore be no valid objection to 
my asking her hand, if my father and I agree that it is best.” 

You are terrible fellows, you Saracinesca,” returned the 
Cardinal, blandly. I have read your family history with 
immense interest, and what you say is quite true. I cannot 
find an instance on record of your taking the advice of any 
one — certainly not of the Holy Church. It is with the utmost 
circumspection that I venture to approach the subject with 
you, and I am sure that you will believe me when I say that 
my words are not dictated by any officious or meddling spirit; 
I am addressing you by the direct desire of the Holy Father 
himself.” 

A soft answer turneth away wrath, and if the all-powerful 
statesman’s answer to Giovanni seems to have been more soft 
than might have been expected, it must be remembered that 
he was speaking to the heir of one of the most powerful houses 
in the Eoman State, at a time when the personal friendship of 
such men as the Saracinesca was of vastly greater importance 
than it is now. At that time some twenty noblemen owned a 
great part of the Pontifical States, and the influence they could 
exert upon their tenantry was very great, for the feudal system 
was not extinct, nor the feudal spirit. Moreover, though Car- 
dinal Antonelli was far from popular with any party, Pius IX. 
was respected and beloved by a vast majority of the gentlemen 
as well as of the people. Giovanni’s first impulse was to resist 
any interference whatsoever in his affairs; but on receiving 
the Cardinal’s mild answer to his own somewhat arrogant 
assertion of independence, he bowed politely and professed 
himself willing to listen to reason. 

“ But,” he said, since his Holiness has mentioned the mat- 
ter, I beg that your Eminence will inform him that, though 
the question of my marriage seems to be in everybody’s mouth, 
it is as yet merely a project in which no active steps have been 
taken.” 

“ I am glad of it, Giovanni,” replied the Cardinal,* familiarly 
taking his arm, and beginning to pace the hall; I am glad of 
it. There are reasons why the match appears to be unworthy 
of you. If you will permit me, without any offence to Madame 
Mayer, I will tell you what those reasons are.” 

“ I am at your service,” said Giovanni, gravely, provided 
only there is no offence to Donna Tullia.” 

None whatever. The reasons are purely ;^olitical. Ma- 
dame Mayer — or Donna Tullia, since you prefer to call her so 
— is the centre of a sort of club of so-called Liberals, of whom 
the most active and the most foolish member is a certain Ugo 
del Ferice, a fellow who calls himself a count, but whose 


SAKACINESCA. 


91 


grandfather was a coachman in the Vatican under Leo XII. 
He will get himself into trouble some day. He is always in 
attendance upon Donna Tullia, aiid probaWy led her into this 
band of foolish young people for objects of his own. It is a 
very silly society; I daresay you have heard some of their 
talk.^^ 

“Very little/’ replied Giovanni; “I do not trouble myself 
about politics. I did not even know that there was such a 
club as your Eminence speaks of.” 

Cardinal Antonelli glanced sharply at his companion as he 
proceeded. 

“ They affect solidarity and secrecy, these young people,” he 
said, with a sneer, “and their solidarity betrays their secrecy, 
because it is unfortunately true in our dear Rome that where- 
ever two or three are gathered together they are engaged in 
some mischief. But they may gather in peace at the studio of 
Monsieur Gouache, or anywhere else they please, for all I care. 
Gouache is a clever fellow; he is to paint my portrait. Do 
you know him ? But, to return to my sheep in wolves’ cloth- 
ing — my amusing little conspirators. They can do no harm, 
for they know not even what they say, and their words are not 
followed by any kind of action whatsoever. But the principle 
of the thing is bad, Giovanni. Your brave old ancestors used 
to fight us Churchmen outright, and unless the Lord is espe- 
cially merciful, their souls are in an evil case, for the devil 
knoweth his own, and is a particularly bad paymaster. But 
they fought outright, like gentlemen ; whereas these people — 
focle7'U')it foveam ut caperent me — they have digged a ditch, 
but they will certainly not catch me, nor any one else. Their 
coneiliabules, as Rousseau would have called them, meet daily 
and talk great nonsense and do nothing; which does not prove 
their principles to be good, while it demonstrates their intel- 
lect to be contemptible. No offence to the Signor Conte del 
Eerice, but I think ignorance has marked his little party for 
its own, and inanity waits on all his councils. If they believe 
fn half the absurdities they utter, why do they not pack up 
their goods and chattels and cross the frontier ? If they 
meant anything, they would do something.” 

“Evidently,” replied Giovanni, half amused at his Emi- 
nence’s tirade. 

“ Evidently. Therefore they mean nothing. Therefore our 
good friend Donna Tullia is dabbling in the emptiness of 
political dilettanteism for the satisfaction of a hollow vanity; 
no offence to her — it is the manner of her kind.” 

Giovanni was silent. 

“ Believe me, prince,” said the Cardinal, suddenly changing 
his tone and speaking very seriously, “ there is something bet- 


92 


SARACINESCA. 


ter for strong men like you and me to do, in these times, than 
to dabble in conspiracy and to toss off glasses of champagne to 
Italian unity and Victor Emmanuel. The condition of our 
lives is battle, and battle against terrible odds. Neither you 
nor I should be content to waste our strength in fighting 
shadows, in waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, 
knowing all the while that the powers of evil are marshalled in 
a deadly array against the powers of good. 8ed non prcevale- 
hunt ! 

The CardinaFs thin face assumed a strange look of deter- 
mination, and his delicate fingers grasped GiovannFs arm with 
a force that startled him. 

^^You speak bravely,^^ answered the young man. You are 
more sanguine than we men of the world. You believe that 
disaster impossible which to me seems growing daily more 
imminent.” 

Cardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full on 
his companion. 

0 generatio incredula ! If you have not faith, you have 
not courage, and if you have not courage you will waste your 
life in the pursuit of emptiness! It is for men like you, for 
men of ancient race, of broad acres, of iron body and healthy 
mind, to put your hand to the good work and help us who have 
struggled for many years and whose strength is already failing. 
Every action of your life, every thought of your waking hours, 
should be for the good end, lest we all perish together and 
expiate our lukewarm indifference. Timidi nunquam statue- 
runt iropcBum — if we would divide the spoil we must gird on 
the sword and use it boldly; we must not allow the possibility 
of failure; we must be vigilant; we must be united as one man. 
You tell me that you men of the world already regard a dis- 
aster as imminent — to expect defeat is nine-tenths of a defeat 
itself. Ah, if we could count upon such men as you to the 
very death, our case would be far from desperate.” 

For the matter of that, your Eminence can count upon us 
well enough,” replied Giovanni, quietly. 

Upon you, Giovanni — yes, for you are a brave gentleman. 
But upon your friends, even upon your class — no. Can I count 
upon the Valdarno, even ? You know as well as I that they 
are in sympathy with the Liberals — that they have neither the 
courage to support us nor the audacity to renounce us; and, 
what is worse, they represent a large class, of whom, I regret 
to say, Donna Tullia Mayer is one of the most prominent mem- 
bers. With her wealth, her youth, her effervescent spirits, and 
her early widowhood, she leads men after her; they talk, they 
chatter, they set up an opinion and gloat over it, while they 
lack the spirit to support it. They are all alike — non tantum 


SARACINESCA. 


93 


ovum ovo simile — one egg is not more like another than they 
are. Non tali auxilio — we want no such help. We ask for 
bread, not for stones; we want men, not empty-headed dandies. 
We have both at present; but if the Emperor fails us, we shall 
have too many dandies and too few men — too few men like 
you, Don Giovanni. Instead of armed battalions we shall have 
polite societies for mutual assurance against political risks, — 
instead of the support of the greatest military power in Europe, 
we shall have to rely on a parcel of young gentlemen whose 
opinions are guided by Donna Tullia Mayer.""' 

Giovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who chose 
to refer all the imminent disasters of the State to the lady 
whom he did not wish to see married to his companion. 

Is her influence really so great ? " asked Saracinesca, in- 
credulously. 

“ She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich — her influence is 
a type of the whole influence which is abroad in Eome — a re- 
flection of the life of Paris. There, at least, the women play a 
real part — very often a great one : here, when they have got 
command of a drawing-room full of fops, they do not know 
where to lead them; they change their minds twenty times 
a-day; they have an access of religious enthusiasm in Advent, 
followed by an attack of Liberal fever in Carnival, and their 
season is brought to a fitting termination by the prostration 
which overtakes them in Lent. By that time all their princi- 
ples are upset, and they go to Paris for the month of May — 
pour se retremper dans les idees idealistes, as they express it. 
Do you think one could construct a party out of such elements, 
especially when you reflect that this mass of uncertainty is cer- 
tain always to yield to the ultimate consideration of self-inte- 
rest ? Half of them keep an Italian flag with the Papal one, 
ready to thrust either of them out of the window as occasion 
may require. Good night, Giovanni. I have talked enough, 
and all Kome will set upon you to find out what secrets of State 
I have been confiding. You had better prepare an answer, for 
you can hardly inform Donna Tullia and her set that I have 
been calling them a parcel of — weak and ill-advised people. 
They might take offence — they might even call me by bad 
names, — fancy how very terribly that would afflict me! Good 
night, Giovanni — my greetings to your father." 

The Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He knew 
that Giovanni hated to kiss his ring, and he had too much tact 
to press the ceremonial etiquette upon any one whom he de- 
sired to influence. But he nodded graciously, and receiving 
his cloak from the gentleman who accompanied him and who 
had waited at a respectful distance, the statesman passed out 
of the great doorway, where the double line of torch-bearers 


94 


SARACINESCA. 


stood ready to accompany him down the grand staircase to his 
carriage, in accordance with the custom of those days. 


CHAPTEE X. 

When he was alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and again 
took up his position near the entrance to the reception-rooms. 
He had matter for reflection in the interview which had just 
ended; and, having nothing better to do while he waited for 
Corona, he thought about what had happened. He was not 
altogether pleased at the interest his marriage excited in high 
quarters; he hated interference, and he regarded Cardinal 
AntonellPs advice in such a matter as an interference of the 
most unwarrantable kind. Neither he himself nor his father 
were men who sought counsel from without, for independence 
in action was with them a family tradition, as independence of 
thought was in their race a hereditary quality. To think that 
if he, Giovanni Saracinesca, chose to marry any woman what- 
soever, any one, no matter how exalted in station, should dare 
to express approval or disapproval was a shock to every inborn 
and cultivated prejudice in his nature. He had nearly quar- 
relled with his own father for seeking to influence his matri- 
monial projects; it was not likely that he would suffer Cardinal 
Antonelli to interfere with them. If Giovanni had really made 
up his mind — had firmly determined to ask the hand of Donna 
Tullia — it is more than probable that the statesman’s advice 
would not only have failed signally in preventing the match, 
but by the very opposition it would have aroused in Giovanni’s 
heart it would have had the effect of throwing him into the 
arms of a party which already desired his adhesion, and which, 
under his guidance, might have become as formidable as it was 
previously insignificant. But the great Cardinal was probably 
well informed, and his words had not fallen upon a barren soil. 
Giovanni had vacillated sadly in trying to come to a decision. 
His first Quixotic impulse to marry Madame Mayer, in order 
to show the world that he cared nothing for Corono d’Astrar- 
dente, had proved itself absurd, even to his impetuous intelli- 
gence. The growing antipathy he felt for Donna Tullia had 
made his marriage with her appear in the light of a disagree- 
able duty, and his rashness in confessing his love for Corona 
had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage no 
longer seemed a duty at all. What had been but a few days 
before almost a fixed resolution, had dwindled till it seemed an 
impracticable and even a useless scheme. When he had arrived 
at the Palazzo Frangipani that evening, he had very nearly for- 
gotten Donna Tullia, and had quite determined that whatever 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


95 


his father might say he would not give the promised answer 
before Easter. By the time the Cardinal had left him, he had 
decided that no power on earth should induce him to marry 
Madame Mayer. He did not take the trouble of saying to him- 
self that he would marry no one else. 

The CardinaBs words had struck deep, in a deep nature. 
Giovanni had given Del Ferice a very fair exposition of the 
views he believed himself to hold, on the day when they had 
walked together after Donna Tullia^s picnic. He believed 
himself a practical man, loyal to the temporal power by 
principle rather than by any sort of enthusiastic devotion; 
not desirous of any great change, because any change that 
might reasonably be expected would be bad for his own vested 
interests; not prejudiced for any policy save that of peace — 
preferring, indeed, with Cicero, the most unjust peace to the 
most just war; tenacious of old customs, and not particularly 
inquisitive concerning ideas of progress, — on the whole, Gio- 
vanni thought himself what his father had been in his youth, 
and more or less what he hoped his sons, if he ever had any, 
would be after him. 

But there was more in him than all this, and at the first 
distant sound of battle he felt the spirit stir within him, for 
his real nature was brave and loyal, unselfish and devoted, 
instinctively sympathizing with the weak and hating the 
lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he believed he would 
fight as a matter of principle : as he leaned against the marble 
pillar of the door in the Palazzo Frangipani, he wished the 
fight had already begun. 

Waiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he was 
aware of a young man with pale and delicate features and 
black hair, who stood quietly by his side, and seemed like 
himself an idle though not uninterested spectator of the scene. 
Giovanni glanced once at the young fellow, and thought he 
recognised him, and glancing again, he met his earnest look, 
and saw that it was Anastase Gouache, the painter. Giovanni 
knew him slightly, for Gouache was regarded as a rising 
celebrity, and, thanks to Donna Tullia, was invited to most of 
the great receptions and balls of that season, though he was 
not yet anywhere on a footing of intimacy. Gouache was 
proud, and would perhaps have stood aloof altogether rather 
than be treated as one of the herd who are asked with every- 
body,^^ as the phrase goes ; but he was of an observing turn of 
mind, and it amused him immensely to stand unnoticed, 
following the movements of society’s planets, comets, and 
satellites, and studying the many types of the cosmopolitan 
Koman world. 

Good evening. Monsieur Gouache,” said Giovanni. 


96 


SAKACINESCA. 


Good evening, prince,^’ replied the artist, with a somewhat 
formal bow — after which both men relapsed into silence, and 
continued to watch the crowd. 

“ And what do you think of our Koman world ? asked Gio- 
vanni, presently. 

I cannot compare it to any other world,” answered 
Gouache, simply. never went into society till I came 
to Kome. I think it is at once brilliant and sedate — it has 
a magnificent air of historical antiquity, and it is a little 
paradoxical.” 

Where is the paradox ? ” inquired Giovanni. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Es-tu-libre ? Les lois sont-elles respectees ? 

Crains-tu de voir ton cbamp pille par le voisin ? 

Le maitre a-t-il son toit, et Touvrier son pain ? ’ ” 

A smile dickered over the young artistes face as he quoted 
Musset’s lines in answer to Giovanni’s question. Giovanni 
himself laughed, and looked at Anastase with somewhat in- 
creased interest. 

Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword of 
Damocles — dancing on the eve of our execution ? ” 

“ Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about to- 
morrow gives zest to the appetite of to-day. It is impossible 
that such a large society should be wholly unconscious of its 
own imminent danger — and yet these men and women go 
about to-night as if they were Komans of old, rulers of the 
world, only less sure of themselves than of the stability of their 
empire.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the pale 
young man beside him. In answer to your quotation, I can 
say that I am as free as I care to be; that the laws are suf- 
ficienty respected; that no one has hitherto thought it worth 
while to plunder my acres; that I have a modest roof of my 
own; and that, as far as I am ware, there are no workmen 
starving in the streets at present. You are answered, it seems 
to me, Monsieur Gouache.” 

“ Is that really your belief ? ” asked the artist, quietly. 

'‘Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air; no one 
thinks of hindering my movements. As for the laws, they are 
made for good citizens, and good citizens will respect them; if 
bad citizens do not, that is their loss. My acres are safe, pos- 
sibly because they are not worth taking, though they yield me 
a modest competence sufficient for my needs and for the needs 
of those who cultivate them for me.” 

" And yet there is a great deal of talk in Rome about misery 
and injustice and oppression ” 

" There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, with 
much better cause, if people who think like you succeed in 


SAKACINESCA. 


97 


bringing about a revolution, Monsieur Gouache,” answered 
Giovanni, coldly. 

If many people think like you, prince, a revolution is not 
to be thought of. As for me I am a foreigner and I see what 
I can, and listen to what I hear.” 

‘‘A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried here and 
failed. If we are overcome by a great power from without, we 
shall have no choice but to yield, if any of us survive — for we 
would fight. But we have nothing to fear from within.” 

“ Perhaps not,” returned Gouache, thoughtfully. “ I hear 
such opposite opinions that I hardly know what to think.” 

I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli^s por- 
trait,” said Giovanni. Perhaps his Eminence will help you 
to decide.” 

‘‘Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe.” 

“ In that opinion they — whoever they may be — are mis- 
taken,” replied Giovanni. “ But he is a man of immense 
intellect, nevertheless.” 

“ I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after all,” 
said Gouache. 

“ You do not wish to be persuaded ? ” 

“ No. My own ideas please me very well for the present. I 
would not exchange them for those of any one else.” 

“ May I ask what those ideas are ? ” inquired Giovanni, with 
a show of interest. 

“ I am a republican,” answered Gouache, quietly. “ I am 
also a good Catholic.” 

“ Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the 
whole of our Koman society put together,” answered Giovanni, 
with a dry laugh. 

“ Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in the 
world.” 

It was nearly twelve o^clock when Corona arrived, old Astrar- 
dente sauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with 
more than usual care, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to 
represent nature. He was said to possess a number of wigs of 
different lengths, which he wore in rotation, thus sustaining 
the impression that his hair was cut from time to time. In 
his eye a single eye-glass was adjusted, and as he walked he 
swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He 
wore the plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no 
chain dangled showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small 
feet were encased in little patent-leather shoes. But for his 
painted face, he might have passed for the very incarnation of 
fashionable simplicity. But his face betrayed him. 

As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any 
colour or material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, 


98 


SARACIKESCA. 


for all who saw her on that memorable night remembered the 
wonderful light in her face, and the strange look in her splen- 
did eyes ; but the thick soft fall of the white velvet made as it 
were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the Astrardente jewels 
that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her black hair, 
collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the light 
cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her 
enter, and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness 
upon a sick man in a fever, so that he would have sprung for- 
ward to meet her, and fallen at her feet and worshipped her, 
had he not suddenly felt that he was watched by more than 
one of the many who paused to see her go by. Ho moved from 
his place and waited near the door where she would have to 
pass, and for a moment his heart stood still. 

He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to 
her. He asked her for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon 
— he never knew how he had dared ; she assented, let her eyes 
rest upon him for one moment with an indescribable expression, 
then grew very calm and cold, and passed on. 

It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his 
place as she went by, and stood still like a man stunned. It 
was well that there were yet nearly two hours before the pre- 
liminary dancing would be over; he needed some time to col- 
lect himself. The air seemed full of strange voices, and he 
watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to concentrate 
his attention upon anything he saw. 

He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,” said a 
woman’s voice near him. It did not strike him, in his strange 
bewilderment, that it was Donna Tullia who had spoken, still 
less that she was speaking of him almost to him. 

“ Something very like it, I should say,” answered Del Ferice’s 
oily voice. “He has probably been ill since you saw him. 
Saracinesca is an unhealthy place.” 

Giovanni turned sharply round. 

“ Yes; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni,” said Donna 
Tullia, with some scorn. “ Does it strike you that you were 
exceedingly rude in not letting me know that you were going 
out of town when you had promised to dance with me at the 
Valdarno ball?” She curled her small lip and showed her 
sharp white teeth. Giovanni was a man of the world, however, 
and was equal to the occasion. 

“ I apologise most humbly,” he said. “ It was indeed very 
rude; but in the urgency of the case, I forgot all other engage- 
ments. I really beg your pardon. Will you honour me with a 
dance this evening ? ” 

“I have every dance engaged,” answered Madame Mayer, 
coldly staring at him. 


SARACIKESCA. 


99 


I am very sorry,” said Giovanni, inwardly thanking heaven 
for his good fortune, and wishing she would go away. 

Wait a moment,” said Donna Tullia, judging that she had 
produced the desired etfect upon him. “ Let me look. I be- 
lieve I have one waltz left. Let me see. Yes, the one before 
the last — you can have it if you like.” 

“ Thank you,” murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. I 
will remember.” 

Madame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Ferice^s arm, and 
moved away. She was a vain woman, and being in love with 
Saracinesca after her own fashion, could not understand that 
he should be wholly indifferent to her. She thought that in 
telling him she had no dances she had given him a little whole- 
some punishment, and that in giving one after all she had con- 
ferred a favour upon him. She also believed that she had 
annoyed Del Ferice, which always amused her. But Del Fe- 
rice was more than a match for her, with his quiet ways and 
smooth tongue. 

They went into the ball-room together and danced a few 
minutes. When the music ceased, Ugo excused himself on the 
plea that he was engaged for the quadrille that followed. He 
at once set out in search of the Duchessa d^Astrardente, and 
did not lose sight of her again. She did not dance before the 
cotillon, she said; and she sat down in a high chair in the pic- 
ture-gallery, while three or four men, among whom was Val- 
darno, sat and stood near her, doing their best to amuse her. 
Others came, and some went away, but Corona did not move, 
and sat amongst her little court, glad to have the time pass in 
any way until the cotillon. When Del Ferice had ascertained 
her position, he went about his business, which was manifold — 
dancing frequently, and making a point of speaking to every 
one in the room. At the end of an hour, he joined the group 
of men around the Duchessa and took part in the conversation. 

It was an easy matter to make the talk turn upon Giovanni 
Saracinesca. Every one was more or less curious about the 
journey he had made, and especially about the cause of his ab- 
sence. Each of the men had something to say, and each, know- 
ing the popular report that Giovanni was in love with Corona, 
said his say with as much wit as he could command. Corona 
herself was interested, for she alone understood his sudden ab- 
sence, and was anxious to hear the common opinion concerning 
it. 

The theories advanced were various. Some said he had been 
quarrelling with the local authorities of Saracinesca, who inter- 
fered with his developments and improvements upon the estate, 
and they gave laughable portraits of the village sages with 
whom he had been engaged. Others said he had only stopped 


100 


SAEACIKESCA. 


there a day, and had been in Naples. One said he had been 
boar-hunting; another, that the Saracinesca woods had been 
infested by a band of robbers, who were terrorising the country. 

And what do you say, Del Ferice ? asked Corona, seeing a 
cunning smile upon the man^s pale fat face. 

It is very simple,^^ said Ugo; ^^it is a very simple matter 
indeed. If the Duchessa will permit me, I will call him, and 
we will ask him directly what he has been doing. There he 
stands with old Cantalorgano at the other end of the room. 
Public curiosity demands to be satisfied. May I call him, 
Duchessa ? ” 

“By no means,” said Corona, quickly. But before she had 
spoken, Valdarno, who was always sanguine and impulsive, had 
rapidly crossed the gallery and was already speaking to Gio- 
vanni. The latter bowed his head as though obeying an order, 
and came quietly back with the young man who had called 
him. The crowd of men parted before him as he advanced to 
the Duchessa^s chair, and stood waiting in some surprise. 

“ What are your commands, Duchessa ? ” he asked, in some- 
what formal tones. 

“Valdarno is too quick,” answered Corona, who was greatly 
annoyed. “ Some one suggested calling you to settle a dispute, 
and he went before I could stop him. I fear it is very imperti- 
nent of us.” 

“ I am entirely at your service,” said Giovanni, who was de- 
lighted at having been called, and had found time to recover 
from his first excitement on seeing her. “ What is the ques- 
tion ? ” 

“We were all talking about you,” said Valdarno. 

“We were wondering where you had been,” said anoilijr. 

“ They said you had gone boar-hunting.” 

“ Or to Naples.” 

“ Or even to Paris.” Three or four spoke in one breath. 

“ I am exceedingly flattered at the interest you all show in 
me,” said Giovanni, quietly. “ There is very little to tell. I 
have been in Saracinesca upon a matter of business, spending 
my days in the woods with my steward, and my nights in keep- 
ing away the cold and the ghosts. I would have invited you 
all to join the festivity, had I known how much you were 
interested. The beef up there is monstrously tough, and the 
rats are abominably noisy, but the mountain air is said to be 
very healthy.” 

Most of the men present felt that they had not only behaved 
foolishly, but had spoiled the little circle around the Duchessa 
by introducing a man who had the power to interest her, 
whereas they could only afford her a little amusement. Val- 
darno was still standing, and his chair beside Corona was 


SAHACINESCA. 


101 


vacant. Giovanni calmly installed himself upon it, and began 
to talk as though nothing had happened. 

You are not dancing, Duchessa,^^ he remarked. I suppose 
you have been in the ball-room ? 

“ Yes — but I am rather tired this evening. I will wait.'’^ 

You were here at the last great ball, before the old prince 
died, were you not ? asked Giovanni, remembering that he 
had first seen her on that occasion. 

‘‘Yes,” she answered; “and I remember that we danced 
together; and the accident to the window, and the story of the 
ghost.” 

So they fell into conversation, and though one or two of the 
men ventured an ineffectual remark, the little circle dropped 
away, and Giovanni was left alone by the side of the Duchessa. 
The distant opening strains of a waltz came floating down the 
gallery, but neither of the two heard, nor cared. 

“ It is strange,” Giovanni said. “ They say it has always 
happened, since the memory of man. No one has ever seen 
anything, but whenever there is a great ball, there is a crash of 
broken glass some time in the course of the evening. Nobody 
could ever explain why that window fell in, five years ago — five 
years ago this month, — this very day, I believe,” he continued 
suddenly, in the act of recollection. “Yes — the nineteenth of 
January, I remember very well — it was my mother’s birthday.” 

“ It is not so extraordinary,” said Corona, “ for it chances to 
be the name-day of the present prince. That was probably 
the reason why it was chosen this year.” She spoke a little 
nervously, as though still ill at ease. 

“ But it is very strange,” said Giovanni, in a low voice. “ It 
is strange that we should have met here the first time, and that 
we should not have met here since, until — to-day.” 

He looked towards her as he spoke, and their eyes met and 
lingered in each other’s gaze. Suddenly the blood mounted to 
Corona’s cheeks, her eyelids drooped, she leaned back in her 
seat and was silent. 

Far off, at the entrance to the ball-room, Del Ferice found 
Donna Tullia alone. She was very angry. The dance for 
which she was engaged to Giovanni Saracinesca had begun, and 
was already half over, and still he did not come. Her pink 
face was unusually flushed, and there was a disagreeable look in 
her blue eyes. 

“Ah ! — I see Don Giovanni has again forgotten his engage- 
ment,” said Ugo, in smooth tones. He well knew that he him- 
self had brought about the omission, but none could have 
guessed it from his manner. “May I have the honour of a 
turn before your cavalier arrives ?” he asked. 

“No,” said Donna Tullia, angrily. “Give me your arm. 


102 


SARACIKESCA. 


We will go and find him.” She almost hissed the words 
through her closed teeth. 

She hardly knew that Del Ferice was leading her as they 
moved towards the picture-gallery, passing through the crowded 
rooms that lay between. She never spoke; but her movement 
was impetuous, and she resented being delayed by the hosts of 
men and women who filled the way. As they entered the long 
apartment, where the portraits of the Frangipani lined the 
walls from end to end, Del Ferice uttered a well-feigned ex- 
clamation. 

“ Oh, there he is ! ” he cried. “ Do you see him ? — his back 
is turned — he is alone with the Astrardente.” 

Come,” said Donna Tullia, shortly. Del Ferice would have 
preferred to have let her go alone, and to have witnessed from 
a distance the scene he had brought about. But he could not 
refuse to accompany Madame Mayer. 

Neither Corona, who was facing the pair, hut was talking 
with Giovanni, nor Giovanni himself, who was turned away 
from them, noticed their approach until they came and stood 
still beside them. Saracinesca looked up and started. The 
Duchessa d^Astrardente raised her black eyebrows in surprise. 

“ Our dance ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, in considerable agitation. 

It is the one after this ” 

On the contrary,” said Donna Tullia, in tones trembling 
with rage, “ it is already over. It is the most unparalleled 
insolence ! ” 

Giovanni was profoundly disgusted at himself and Donna 
Tullia. He cared not so much for the humiliation itself, which 
was bad enough, as for the annoyance the scene caused Corona, 
who looked from one to the other in angry astonishment, but 
of course could have nothing to say. 

I can only assure you that I thought 

You need not assure me ! ” cried Donna Tullia, losing all 
self-control. “ There is no excuse, nor pardon — it is the second 
time. Do not insult me further, by inventing untruths for 
your apology.” 

Nevertheless ” began Giovanni, who was sincerely sorry 

for his great rudeness, and would gladly have attempted to ex- 
plain his conduct, seeing that Donna Tullia was so justly angry. 

“There is no nevertheless !” she interrupted. “You may 
stay where you are,” she added, with a scornful glance at the 
Duchessa d^Astrardente. Then she laid her hand upon Del 
Ferice^s arm, and swept angrily past, so that the train of her 
red silk gown brushed sharply against Corona’s soft white 
velvet. 

Giovanni remained standing a moment, with a puzzled ex- 
pression upon his face. 


SAEACtNESCA. 


103 


“ How could you do anything so rude ? ” asked Corona, very 
gravely. She will never forgive you, and she will be quite 
right. 

“ I do not know how I forgot,” he answered, seating himself 
again. It is dreadful — unpardonable — but perhaps the con- 
sequences will be good.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

Corona was ill at ease. In the first few moments of being 
alone with Giovanni the pleasure she felt outweighed all other 
thoughts. But as the minutes lengthened to a quarter of an 
hour, then to half an hour, she grew nervous, and her answers 
came more and more shortly. She said to herself that she 
should never have given him the cotillon, and she wondered 
how the remainder of the time would pass. The realisation of 
what had occurred came upon her, and the hot blood rose to 
her face and ebbed away again, and rose once more. Yet she 
could not speak out what her pride prompted her to say, be- 
cause she pitied Giovanni a little, and was willing to think for 
a moment that it was only compassion she felt, lest she should 
feel that she must send him away. 

But Giovanni sat beside her, and knew that the spell was 
working upon him, and that there was no salvation. He had 
taken her unawares, though he hardly knew it, when she first 
entered, and he asked her suddenly for a dance. He had 
wondered vaguely why she had so freely consented ; but, in the 
wild delight of being by her side, he completely lost all hold 
upon himself, and yielded to the exquisite charm of her pre- 
sence, as a man who has struggled for a moment against a 
powerful opiate sinks under its infiuence, and involuntarily 
acknowledges his weakness. Strong as he was, his strength was 
all gone, and he knew not where he should find it. 

“ You will have to make her some further apology,” said 
Corona, as Madame Mayer’s red train disappeared through the 
doorway at the other end of the room. 

Of course — I must do something about it,” said Giovanni, 
absently. ‘‘After all, I do not wonder — it is amazing that I 
should have recognised her at all. I should forget anything 
to-night, except that I am to dance with you.” 

The Huchessa looked away, and fanned herself slowly; but 
she sighed, and checked tlie deep-drawn breath as by a great 
effort. The waltz was over, and the dancers streamed through 
the intervening rooms towards the gallery in quest of fresher 
air and freer space. Two and two they came, quickly following 
each other and passing on, some filling the high seats along the 
walls, others hastening towards the supper-rooms beyond. A 


104 


SARACIKESCA. 


few minutes earlier Saraciuesca and Corona had been almost 
alone in the great apartment; now they were surrounded on all 
sides by a chattering crowd of men and women, with flushed 
faces or unnaturally pale, according as the effort of dancing 
affected each, and the indistinguishable din of hundreds of 
voices so filled the air that Giovanni and the Duchessa could 
hardly hear each other speak. 

This is intolerable,’^ said Giovanni, suddenly. “ You are 
not engaged for the last quadrille ? Shall we not go away until 
the cotillon begins ? ” 

Corona hesitated a moment, and was silent. She glanced 
once at Giovanni, and again surveyed the moving crowd. 

“Yes,” she said at last; “let us go away.” 

“ You are very good,” answered Giovanni in a low voice, as 
he offered her his arm. She looked at him inquiringly, and 
her face grew grave, as they slowly made their way out of the 
room. 

At last they came to the conservatory, and went in among the 
great plants and the soft lights. There was no one there, and 
they slowly paced the broad walk that was left clear all round 
the glass-covered chamber, and up and down the middle. The 
plants were disposed so thickly as to form almost impenetrable 
walls of green on either side; and at one end there was an open 
space where a little marble fountain playe'd, around which were 
disposed seats of carved wood. But Giovanni and Corona con- 
tinued to walk slowly along the tiled path. 

“ Why did you say I was good just now ? ” asked Corona at 
last. Her voice sounded cold. 

“I should not have said it, perhaps,” answered Giovanni. 
“ I say many things which I cannot help saying. I am very 
sorry.” 

“ I am very sorry too,” answered the Duchessa, quietly. 

“ Ah ! if you knew, you would forgive me. If you could guess 
half the truth, you would forgive me.” 

“ I would rather not guess it.” 

“Of course; but you have already — you know it all. Have I 
not told you ? ” Giovanni spoke in despairing tones. He was 
utterly weak and spellbound ; he could hardly find any words 
at all. 

“ Don Giovanni,” said Corona, speaking very proudly and 
calmly, but not unkindly, “ I have known you so long, I believe 
you to be so honourable a man, that I am willing to suppose 
that you said— what you said — in a moment of madness.” 

“Madness! It was madness; but it is more sweet to re- 
member than all the other doings of my life,” said Saracinesca, 
his tongue unloosed at last. “If it is madness to love you, I 
am mad past all cure. There is no healing for me now; I 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


105 


shall never find my senses again, for they are lost in yon, and 
lost for ever. Drive me away, crush me, trample on me if you 
will ; you cannot kill me nor kill my madness, for I live in you 
and for you, and I cannot die. That is all. I am not eloquent 
as other men are, to use smooth words and twist phrases. I 
love you 

‘‘ You have said too much already — too much, far too much,” 
murmured Corona, in broken tones. She had withdrawn her 
hand from his during his passionate speech, and stood back 
from him against the dark wall of green plants, her head droop- 
ing upon her breast, her fingers clasped fast together. His short 
rude words were terribly sweet to hear; it was fearful to think 
that she was alone with him, that one step would bring her to 
his side, that with one passionate impulse she might throw her 
white arms about his neck, that one faltering sigh of over- 
whelming love might bring her queenly head down upon his 
shoulder. Ah, God ! how gladly she would let her tears fiow 
and speak for her! how unutterably sweet it would be to rest 
for one instant in his arms, to love and be loved as she longed 
to be! 

^^You are so cold,” he cried, passionately. ‘^You cannot 
understand. All spoken words are not too much, are not enough 
to move you, to make you see that I do really worship and adore 
you; you, the whole of you — your glorious face, your sweet 
small hands, your queenly ways, the light of your eyes, and the 
words of your lips — all of you, body and soul, I love. I would 
I might die now, for you know it, even if you will not under- 
stand ” 

He moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands as he 
spoke. Corona trembled convulsively, and her lips turned 
white in the torture of temptation ; she leaned far back against 
the green leaves, staring wildly at Giovanni, held as in a vice 
by the mighty passions of love and fear. Having yielded her 
ears to his words, they fascinated her horibbly. He, poor man, 
had long lost all control of himself. His resolutions, long pon- 
dered in the solitude of Saracinesca, had vanished like unsub- 
stantial vapours before a strong fire, and his heart and soul 
were ablaze. 

^^Do not look at me so,” he said almost tenderly. ‘^Do not 
look at me as though you feared me, as though you hated me. 
Can you not see that it is I who fear you as well as love you, 
who tremble at your coldness, who watch for your slightest kind 
look ? Ah, Corona, you have made me so happy ! — there is no 
angel in all heaven but would give up his Paradise to change 
for mine ! ” 

He had taken her hand and pressed it wildly to his lips. 
Her eyelids drooped, and her head fell back for one moment. 


106 


SARACIKESCA, 


They stood so very near that his arm had almost stolen about 
her slender waist, he almost thought he was supporting her. 

Suddenly, without the least warning, she drew herself up to 
her full height, and thrust Giovanni back to her arm’s length, 
strongly, almost roughly. 

“ Never! ” she said. I am a weak woman, but not so weak 
as that. I am miserable, but not so miserable as to listen to 
you. Giovanni Saracinesca, you say you love me — God grant it 
is not true! but you say it. Then, have you no honour, no 
courage, no strength ? Is there nothing of the man left in you ? 
Is there no truth in your love, no generosity in your heart ? If 
you so love me as you say you do, do you care so little what be- 
comes of me as to tempt me to love you ?” 

She spoke very earnestly, not scornfully nor angrily, but in 
the certainty of strength and right, and in the strong persuasion 
that the headstrong man would hear and be convinced. She 
was weak no longer, for one desperate moment her fate had 
trembled in the balance, but she had not hesitated even then ; 
she had struggled bravely, and her brave soul had won the great 
battle. She had been weak the other day at the theatre, in let- 
ting herself ask the question to which she knew the answer; she 
had been miserably weak that very night in so abandoning her- 
self to the influence she loved and dreaded; but at the great 
moment, when heaven and earth swam before her as in a wild 
and unreal mirage, with the voice of the man she loved ring- 
ing in her ears, speaking such words as it was an ecstasy to hear, 
she had been no longer weak — the reality of danger had brought 
forth the sincerity of her goodness, and her heart had found 
courage to do a great deed. She had overcome, and she 
knew it. 

Giovanni stood back from her, and hung his head. In a 
moment the force of his passion was checked, and from the 
supreme verge of unspeakable and rapturous delight, he was 
cast suddenly into the depths of his own remorse. He stood 
silent before her, trembling and awestruck. 

You cannot understand me,” she said, “ I do not under- 
stand myself. But this I know, that you are not what you 
have seemed to-night — that there is enough manliness and 
nobility in you to respect a woman, and that you will hereafter 
prove that I am right. I pray that I may not see you any 
more; but if I must see you, I will trust you thus much — say 
that I may trust you,” she added, her strong smooth voice sink- 
ing in a trembling cadence, half beseeching, and yet wholly 
commanding. 

Saracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a mo- 
ment. Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers, and seemed 
to gather strength from her. 


SARACINESCA. 


107 


If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust me. 
I would I were as noble and good as you — I am not. I will try 
to be. Ah, Corona! he cried suddenly, ‘‘ forgive me, forgive 
me ! I hardly knew what I said.” 

‘^Hush!” said the Duchessa, gently; ^^you must not speak 
like that, nor call me Corona. Perhaps I am wrong to forgive 
you wholly, but I believe in you. I believe you will under- 
stand, and that you will be worthy of the trust I place in you.” 

“ Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have trusted me 
in vain,” answered Giovanni very proudly — “ neither man nor 
woman — and, least of all women, you.” 

“ That is well,” said she, with a faint shadow of a smile. 
“I would rather see you proud than reckless. See that you 
remain so — that neither by word nor deed you ever remind me 
that I have had anything to forgive. It is the only way in 
which any intercourse between us can be possible after this — 
this dreadful night.” 

Giovanni bowed his head. He was still pale, but he had 
regained control of himself. 

“ I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your memory, 
and I implore your forgiveness, even though you cannot forget.” 

“I cannot forget,” said Corona, almost under her breath. 
Giovanni’s eyes flashed for a moment. “ Shall we go back to 
the ball-room ? I will go home soon.” 

As they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, with 
the fall of some heavy body, startled them, and made them 
stand still in the middle of the walk. The noisy concussion 
was followed by a complete silence. Corona, whose nerves had 
been severely tried, trembled slightly. 

It is strange,” she said ; they say it always happens.” 

There was nothing to be seen. The thick web of plants hid 
the cause of the noise from view, whatever it might be. Gio- 
vanni hesitated a moment, looking about to see how he could 
get behind the banks of flower-pots. Then he left Corona 
without a word, and striding to the end of the walk, disap- 
peared into the depths of the conservatory. He had noticed 
that there was a narrow entrance at the end nearest the foun- 
tain, intended probably to admit the gardener for the purpose 
of watering the plants. Corona could hear his quick steps; she 
thought she heard a low groan and a voice whispering, — but 
she might have been mistaken, for the place was large, and her 
heart was beating fast. 

Giovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which was 
sufficiently lighted by the soft light of the many candles con- 
cealed in various parts of the conservatory, when he came upon 
the flgnre of a man sitting, as he had apparently fallen, across 
the small passage. The fragments of a heavy earthenware vase 


108 


SARACIi^ESCA. 


lay beyond him, with a heap of earth and roots; and the tall 
india-rubber plant which grew in it had fallen against the slop- 
ing glass roof and shattered several panes. As Giovanni came 
suddenly upon him, the man struggled to rise, and in the dim 
light Saracinesca recognized Del Ferice. The truth flashed 
upon him at once. The fellow had been listening, and had 
probably heard all. Giovanni instantly resolved to conceal the 
fact from the Duchessa, to whom the knowledge that the pain- 
ful scene had been overheard would be a bitter mortiflcation. 
Giovanni could undertake to silence the eavesdropper. 

Quick as thought his strong brown hands gripped the throat 
of Ugo Del Ferice, stifling his breath like a collar of iron. 

“Dog!^’ he whispered flercely in the wretch’s ear, ^^if you 
breathe, I will kill you now! You will And me in my own 
house in an hour. Be silent now ! ” Giovanni whispered, with 
such a terrible grip on the fellow’s throat that his eyeballs 
seemed starting from his head. Then he turned and went out 
by the way he had entered, leaving Del Ferice writhing with 
pain and gasping for breath. As he joined Corona, his face 
betrayed no emotion — he had been so pale before that he could 
not turn whiter in his anger — but his eyes gleamed flercely at 
the thought of flght. The Duchessa stood where he had left 
her, still much agitated. 

“ It is nothing,” said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as he 
offered her his arm and led her quickly away. Imagine. A 
great vase with one of Frangipani’s favourite plants in it had 
been badly propped, and had fallen right through the glass, 
outward.” 

“ It is strange,” said Corona. “ I was almost sure I heard a 
groan.” 

“ It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a stormy 
night.” 

“ That was just the way that window fell in flve years ago,” 
said Corona. Something always happens here. I think I 
will go home — let us And my husband.” 

No one would have guessed, from Corona’s face, that any- 
thing extraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she had 
spent in the conservatory. She walked calmly by Giovanni’s 
side, not a trace of excitement on her pale proud face, not a 
sign of uneasiness in the quiet glance of her splendid eyes. 
She had conquered, and she knew it, never to be tempted 
again; she had conquered herself and she had overcome the 
man beside her. Giovanni glanced at her in wondering ad- 
miration. 

“ You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am the most 
contemptible of men,” he said suddenly, as they entered the 
picture-gallery. 


SARACIJ^ESCA. 


109 


am _ not brave,” she answered calmly, neither are you 
contemptible, my friend. We have both been very near to our 
destruction, but it has pleased God to save us.” 

“ By you,” said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew that 
within six hours he might be lying dead upon some plot of 
wet grass without the city, and he grew very grave, after the 
manner of brave men when death is abroad. 

You have saved my soul to-night,” he said earnestly. 

Will you give me your blessing and whole forgiveness ? Do 
not laugh at me, nor think me foolish. The blessing of such 
women as you should make men braver and better.” 

The gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had begun, 
and those who were not dancing were at supper. Corona stood 
still for one moment by the very chair where they had sat so 
long. 

I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may be 
upon you always, in life and in death, for ever.” 

Giovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as though 
the woman he so loved was speaking a benediction upon his 
death, a last in pace which should follow him for all eternity. 

In life and in death, I will honour you truly and serve you 
faithfully for ever,” he answered. As he raised his head. Corona 
saw that there were tears in his eyes, and she felt that there 
were tears in her own. 

Come,” she said, and they passed on in silence. 

She found her husband at last in the supper-room. He was 
leisurely discussing the wing of a chicken and a small glass of 
claret-and-water, with a gouty ambassador whose wife had in- 
sisted upon dancing the cotillon, and who was revenging him- 
self upon a Strasbourg pate and a bottle of dry champagne. 

Ah, my dear,” said Astrardente, looking up from his mod- 
est fare, “ yon have been dancing ? You have come to supper ? 
You are very wise. I have danced a great deal myself, but I 
have not seen you — the room was so crowded. Here — this 
small table will hold us all, just a quartet.” 

“ Thanks — I am not hungry. Will you take me home when 
you have finished supper ? Or are you going to stay ? Do not 
wait, Don Giovanni ; I know you are busy in the cotillon. My 
husband will take care of me. Good night.” 

Giovanni bowed, and went away, glad to be alone at last. He 
had to be at home in half an hour according to his engagement, 
and he had to look about him for a friend. All Rome was at 
the ball; but the men upon whom he could call for such ser- 
vice as he required, were all dancing. Moreover, he refiected 
that in such a matter it was necessary to have some one espe- 
cially trustworthy. It would not do to have the real cause of 
tb^ duel known, and the choice of a second was a very impor- 


110 


SARACIN^ESCA. 


tant matter. He never doubted that Del Ferice would send 
some one with a challenge at the appointed time. Del Ferice 
was a scoundrel, doubtless; but he was quick with the foils, and 
had often appeared as second in affairs of honour. 

Giovanni stood by the door of the ball-room, looking at the 
many familiar faces, and wondering how he could induce any 
one to leave his partner at that hour, and go home with him. 
Suddenly he was aware that his father was standing beside him 
and eyeing him curiously. 

What is the matter, Giovannino ? inquired the old Prince. 
“ Why are you not dancing ? ” 

‘‘The fact is ” began Giovanni, and then stopped sud-^ 

denly. An idea struck him. He went close to his father, and 
spoke in a low voice. 

“ The fact is, that I have just taken a man by the throat and 
otherwise insulted him, by calling him a dog. The fellow 
seemed annoyed, and so I told him he might send to our house 
in an hour for an explanation. I cannot find a friend, because 
everybody is dancing this abominable cotillon. Perhaps you 
can help me,^"* he added, looking at his father rather doubt- 
fully. To his surprise and considerable relief the old Prince 
burst into a hearty laugh. 

“ Of course,’^ he cried. “ What do you take me for ? Do 
you think I would desert my boy in a fight ? Go and call my 
carriage, and wait for me while I pick up somebody for a wit- 
ness ; we can talk on the way home.” 

The old Prince had been a duellist in his day, and he would 
no more have thought of advising his son not to fight than of 
refusing a challenge himself. He was, moreover, exceedingly 
bored at the ball, and not in the least sleepy. The prospect of 
an exciting night was novel and delightful. He knew Gio- 
vanni’s extraordinary skill, and feared nothing for him. He 
knew everybody in the ball-room was engaged, and he went 
straight to the supper-table, expecting to find some one there. 
Astrardente, the Duchessa, and the gouty ambassador were still 
together, as Giovanni had left them a moment before. The 
Prince did not like Astrardente, but he knew the ambassador 
very well. He called him aside, with an apology to the Du- 
chessa. 

“ I want a young man immediately,” said old Saracinesca, 
stroking his white beard with his broad brown hand. “ Can 
you tell of any one who is not dancing?” 

“There is Astrardente,” answered his Excellency, with an 
ironical smile. “ A duel ? ” he asked. 

Saracinesca nodded. 

“I am too old,” said the diplomatist, thoughtfully; “but it 
would be infinitely amusing. I cannot give you one of my 


SARACINESCA. 


Ill 


secretaries either. It always makes such a scandal. Oh, there 
goes the ver^ man ! Catch him before it is too late ! 

Old Saracmesca glanced in the direction the ambassador in- 
dicated, and darted away. He was as active as a boy, in spite 
of his sixty years. 

Eh ! he cried. Hi ! you ! Come here ! Spicca ! 
Stop ! Excuse me — I am in a great hurry ! ” 

Count Spicca, whom he thus addressed, paused and looked 
round through his single eyeglass in some surprise. He was an 
immensely tall and cadaverous-looking man, with a black 
beard and searching grey eyes. 

I really beg your pardon,” said the Prince hurriedly, in a 
low voice, as he came up, but I am in a great hurry — an atfair 
of honour — will you be witness ? My carriage is at the door.” 

‘‘With pleasure,” said Count Spicca, quietly; and without 
further comment he accompanied the Prince to the outer hall. 
Giovanni was waiting, and the Princess footman stood at the 
head of the stairs.. In three minutes the father and son and 
the melancholy Spicca were seated in the carriage, on their way 
to the Palazzo Saracinesca. 

“ Now then, Giovannino,” said the Prince, as he lit a cigarette 
in the darkness, “ tell us all about it.” 

“ There is not much to tell,” said Giovanni. “ If the chal- 
lenge arrives, there is nothing to be done but to fight. I took 
him by the throat and nearly strangled him.” 

“ Whom ? ” asked Spicca, mournfully. 

“ Oh ! it is Del Ferice,” answered Giovanni, who had for- 
gotten that he had not mentioned the name of his probable an- 
tagonist. The Prince laughed. 

“ Del Ferice ! Who would have thought it ? He is a dead 
man. What was it all about ? ” 

“ That is unnecessary to say here,” said Giovanni, quietly. 
“ He insulted me grossly. I half-strangled him, and told him 
he was a dog. I suppose he will fight.” 

“Ah yes; he will probably fight,” repeated Spicca, thought- 
fully. “ What are your weapons, Don Giovanni ? ” 

“ Anything he likes.” 

“But the choice is yours if he challenges,” returned the 
Count. 

“ As you please. Arrange all that — foils, swords, or pistols.” 

“ You do not seem to take much interest in this affair,” re- 
marked Spicca, sadly. 

“ He is best with foils,” said the old Prince. 

“ Foils or pistols, of course,” said the Count. “ Swords are 
child^s play.” 

Satisfied that his seconds meant business, Giovanni sank back 
in his corner of the carriage, and was silent. 


112 


SAKACINESCA. 


“We had better have the meeting in my villa,” said his 
father. “ If it rains, they can fight indoors. I will send for 
the surgeon at once.” 

In a few moments they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. 
The Prince left word at the porter’s lodge that any gentlemen 
who arrived were to be admitted, and all three went up-stairs. 
It was half-past two o’clock. 

As they entered the apartments, they heard a carriage drive 
under the great archway below. 

“Go to your rooms, Giovannino,” said the old Prince. 
“ These fellows are punctual. I will call you when they are 
gone. I suppose you mean business seriously ? ” 

“ I care nothing about him. I will give him any satisfaction 
he pleases,” answered Giovanni. “ It is very kind of you to 
undertake the matter — I am very grateful.” 

“I would not leave it to anybody else,” muttered the old 
Prince, as he hurried away to meet Del Perice’s seconds. 

Giovanni entered his own rooms, and went straight to his 
writing-table. He took a pen and a sheet of paper and began 
writing. His face was very grave, but his hand was steady. 
For more than an hour he wrote without pausing. Then his 
father entered the room. 

“ Well ?” said Giovanni, looking up. 

“ It is all settled,” said the old gentleman, seriously. “ I 
was afraid they might make some objection to me as a second. 
You know there is an old clause about near relations acting in 
such cases. But they declared that they considered my co- 
operation an honour — so that is all right. You must do your 
best, my boy. This rascal means to hurt you if he can. Seven 
o’clock is the time. We must leave here at half-past six. 
You can sleep two hours and a half. I will sit up and call 
you. Spicca has gone home to change his clothes, and is 
coming back immediately. Now lie down. I will see to your 
foils ” ^ 

“ Is it foils, then ? ” asked Giovanni, quietly. 

“Yes. They made no objection. You had better lie 
down.” 

“ I will. Father, if anything should happen to me — it may, 
you know — you will find my keys in this drawer, and this 
letter, which I beg you will read. It is to yourself.” 

“Nonsense, my dear boy! Nothing will happen to you — 
you will just run him through the arm and come home to 
breakfast.” 

The old Prince spoke in his rough cheerful way; but his 
voice trembled, and he turned aside to hide two great tears 
that had fallen upon his dark cheeks and were losing them- 
selves in his white beard. 


SARACINESCA. 


llb^ 


CHAPTER XIL 

Giovanni slept soundly for two hours. He was very tired 
with the many emotions of the night, and the arrangements 
for the meeting being completed, it seemed as though work i 
were over and the pressure removed. It is said that men will I 
sleep for hours when the trial is over and the sentence of death 
has been passed; and though it was more likely that Del 
Eerice would be killed than that Giovanni would be hurt, the 
latter felt not unlike a man who has been tried for his life. 
He had suffered in a couple of hours almost every emotion 
of which he was capable — his love for Corona, long controlled 
and choked down, had broken bounds at last, and found 
expression for itself; he had in a moment suffered the severest 
humiliation and the most sincere sorrow at her reproaches; he 
had known the fear of seeing her no more, and the sweetness 
of pardon from her own lips; he had found himself on a sud- 
den in a frenzy of righteous wrath against Del Eerice, and a 
moment later he had been forced to hide his anger under a 
calm face; and at last, when the night was far spent, he had 
received the assurance that in less than four hours he would 
have ample opportunity for taking vengeance upon the cow- 
ardly eavesdropper who had so foully got possession of the 
one secret he held dear. Worn out with all he had suffered, and 
calm in the expectation of the morning^s struggle, Giovanni lay 
down upon his bed and slept. 

Del Eerice, on the contrary, was very wakeful. He had an 
unpleasant sensation about his throat as though he had been 
hanged, and cut down before he was dead; and he suffered the 
unutterable mortification of knowing that, after a long and 
successful social career, he had been detected by his worst 
enemy in a piece of disgraceful villany. In the first place, 
Giovanni might kill him. Del Eerice was a very good fencer, 
but Saracinesca was stronger and more active; there was cer- 
tainly considerable danger in the duel. On the other hand, if 
he survived, Giovanni had him in his power for the rest of his 
life, and there was no escape possible. He had been caught 
listening — caught in a flagrantly dishonest trick— and he well 
knew that if the matter had been brought before a jury of 
honour, he would have been declared incompetent to claim any 
satisfaction. 

It was not the first time Del Eerice had done such things, 
but it was the first time he had been caught. He cursed his 
awkwardness in oversetting the vase just at the moment when 
his game was successfully played to the end — just when he 
thought that he began to see land, in having discovered beyond 
all doubt that Giovanni was devoted body and soul to Corona 


114 


SARACIKESCA. 


d^Astrardente. The information had been necessary to him, 
for he was beginning seriously to press his suit with Donna 
Tullia, and he needed to be sure that Giovanni was not a rival 
to be feared. He had long suspected Saracinesca^s devotion to 
the dark Duchessa, and by constantly putting himself in his way, 
he had done his best to excite his Jealousy and to stimulate his 
passion. Giovanni never could have considered Del Ferice as 
a rival; the idea would have been ridiculous. But the con- 
stant annoyance of finding the man by Corona’s side, when he 
desired to be alone with her, had in some measure heightened 
the effect Del Ferice desired, though it had not actually pro- 
duced it. Being a good judge of character, he had sensibly 
reckoned his chances against Giovanni, and he had formed so 
just an opinion of the man’s bold and devoted character as to 
be absolutely sure that if Saracinesca loved Corona he would 
not seriously think of marrying Donna Tullia. He had done 
all he could to strengthen the passion when he guessed it was 
already growing, and at the very moment when he had received 
circumstantial evidence of it which placed it beyond all doubt, 
he had allowed himself to be discovered, through his own un- 
pardonable carelessness. 

Evidently the only satisfactory way out of the difficulty was 
to kill Giovanni outright, if he could do it. In that way he 
would rid himself of an enemy, and at the same time of the 
evidence against himself. The question was, how this could 
be accomplished ; for Giovanni was a man of courage, strength, 
and experience, and he himself — Ugo del Ferice — possessed 
none of those qualities in any great degree. The result was, 
that he slept not at all, but passed the night in a state of 
nerv’ous anxiety by no means conducive to steadiness of hand 
or calmness of the nerves. He was less pleased than ever when 
he heard that Giovanni’s seconds were his own father and the 
melancholy Spicca, who was the most celebrated duellist in 
Italy, in spite of his cadaverous long body, his sad voice, and 
his expression of mournful resignation to the course of events. 

In the event of his neither killing Don Giovanni nor being 
himself killed, what he most dreaded was the certainty that 
for the rest of his life he must be in his enemy’s power. He 
knew that, for Corona’s sake, Giovanni would not mention the 
cause of the duel, and no one could have induced him to speak 
of it himself; but it would be a terrible hindrance in his life 
to feel at every turn that the man he hated had the power to 
expose him to the world as a scoundrel of the first water. 
What he had heard gave him but small influence over Saraci- 
nesca, though it was of great value in determining his own 
action. To say aloud to the world that Giovanni loved the 
Duchessa d’Astrardente would be of little use. Del Ferice 


SAllAClKESOA. 


115 


could not, for very shame, tell how he had found it out; and 
there was no other proof but his evidence, for he guessed that 
from that time forward the open relation between the two 
would be even more formal than before — and the most credu- 
lous people do not believe in a great fire unless they can see a 
little smoke. He had not even the advantage of turning the 
duel to account in his interest with Donna Tullia, since Gio- 
vanni could force him to deny that she was implicated in the ^ 
question, on pain of exposing his treachery. There was pal- 
pably no satisfactory way out of the matter unless he could kill 
his adversary. He would have to leave the country for a while; 
but Giovanni once dead, it would be easy to make Donna 
Tullia believe they had fought on her account, and to derive 
all the advantage there was to be gained from posing before 
the world as her defender. 

But though Del Ferice’s rest was disturbed by the contem- 
plation of his difficulties, he did not neglect any precaution 
which might save his strength for the morrow. He lay down 
upon his bed, stretching himself at full length, and carefully 
keeping his right arm free, lest, by letting his weight fall upon 
it as he lay, he should benumb the muscles or stiffen the joints; 
from time to time he rubbed a little strengthening ointment 
upon his wrist, and he was careful that the light should not 
shine in his eyes and weary them. At six o’clock his seconds 
appeared with the surgeon they had engaged, and the four 
men were soon driving rapidly down the Oorso towards the gate. 

So punctual were the two parties that they arrived simul- 
taneously at the gate of the villa which had been selected for 
the encounter. The old Prince took a key from his pocket 
and himself opened the great iron gate. The carriages drove 
in, and the gates were closed by the astonished porter, who 
came running out as they creaked upon their hinges. The 
light was already sufficient for the purpose of fencing, as the 
eight men descended simultaneously before the house. The 
morning was cloudy, but the ground was dry. The principals 
and seconds saluted each other formally. Giovanni withdrew 
to a little distance on one side with his surgeon, and Del Ferice 
stood aside with his. 

The melancholy Spicca, who looked like the shadow of death 
in the dim morning light, was the first to speak. 

Of course you know the best spot in the villa ? ” he said to 
the old Prince. 

“As there is no sun, I suggest that they fight upon the 
ground behind the house. It is hard and dry.” 

The whole party followed old Saracinesca. Spicca had the 
foils in a green bag. The place suggested by the Prince seemed 
in every way adapted, and Del Ferice’s seconds made no objec- 


116 


SAHAClNESCA. 


tion. There was absolutely no choice of position upon the 
ground, which was an open space about twenty yards square, 
hard and well rolled, preferable in every way to a grass lawn. 

Without further comment, Giovanni took off his coat and 
waistcoat, and Del Ferice, who looked paler and more unhealthy 
than usual, followed his example. The seconds crossed sides to 
examine the principals^ shirts, and to assure themselves that 
they wore no flannel underneath the unstarched linen. This 
formality being accomplished, the foils were carefully com- 
pared, and Giovanni was offered the first choice. He took the 
one nearest his hand, and the other was carried to Del Ferice. 
They were simple fencing foils, the buttons being removed and 
the points sharpened — there was nothing to choose between 
them. The seconds then each took a sword, and stationed the 
combatants some seven or eight paces apart, while they them- 
selves stood a little aside, each upon the right hand of his 
principal, and the witnesses placed themselves at opposite 
corners of the ground, the surgeons remaining at the ends 
behind the antagonists. There was a moment’s pause. When 
all was ready, old Saracinesca came close to Giovanni, while 
Del Ferice’s second approached his principal in like manner. 

“ Giovanni,” said the old Prince, gravely, “ as your second I 
am bound to recommend you to make any advance in your 
power towards a friendly understanding. Can you do so?” 

^‘No, father, I cannot,” answered Giovanni, with a slight 
smile. His face was perfectly calm, and of a natural colour. 
Old Saracinesca crossed the ground, and met Casalverde, the 
opposite second, half-way. Each formally expressed to the 
other his great regret that no arrangement would be possible, 
and then retired again to the right hand of his principal. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Prince, in a loud voice, are you 
ready?” As both men bowed their assent, he added imme- 
diately, in a sharp tone of command, In guard ! ” 

Giovanni and Del Ferice each made a step forward, saluted 
each other with their foils, repeated the salute to the seconds 
and witnesses, and then came face to face and fell into position. 
Each made one thrust in tierce at the other, in the usual 
fashion of compliment, each parrying in the same manner. 

“ Halt ! ” cried Saracinesca and Casalverde, in the same breath. 

“ In guard ! ” shouted the Prince again, and the duel 
commenced. 

In a moment the difference between the two men was appa- 
rent. Del Ferice fenced in the Neapolitan style — his arm straight 
before him, never bending from the elbow, making all his play 
with his wrist, his back straight, and his knees so much bent 
that he seemed not more than half his height. He made his 
movements short and quick, and relatively few, in evident fear 


SAHACIKESCA. 


117 


of tiring himself at the start. To a casual observer his fence 
was less graceful than his antagonists, his lunges less daring, 
his parries less brilliant. But as the old Prince watched him 
he saw that the point of his foil advanced and retreated in a 
perfectly straight line, and in parrying described the smallest 
circle possible, while his cold watery blue eye was fixed steadily 
upon his antagonist; old Saracinesca ground his teeth, for he 
saw that the man was a most accomplished swordsman. 

Giovanni fought with the air of one who defended himself, 
without much thought of attack. He did not bend so low as 
Del Ferice, his arm doubled a little before his lunge, and his 
foil occasionally made a wide circle in the air. He seemed 
careless, but in strength and elasticity he was far superior to 
his enemy, and could perhaps afford to trust to these advan- 
tages, when a man like Del Ferice was obliged to employ his 
whole skill and science. 

They had been fencing for more than two minutes, without 
any apparent result, when Giovanni seemed suddenly to change 
his tactics. He lowered the point of his weapon a little, and, 
keeping it straight before him, began to press more closely upon 
his antagonist. Del Ferice kept his arm at full length, and 
broke ground for a yard or two, making clever feints in carte 
at Giovanni's body, with the object of stopping his advance. 
But Giovanni pressed him, and suddenly made a peculiar 
movement with his foil, bringing it in contact with his enemy's 
along its length. 

Halt ! " cried Casalverde. Both men lowered their weapons 
instantly, and the seconds sprang forward and touched their 
swords between them. Giovanni bit his lip angrily. 

Why ^ halt ' ? " asked the Prince, sharply. Neither is 
touched." 

“ My principal's shoe-string is untied," answered Casalverde, 
calmly. It was true. ^^He might easily trip and fall," ex- 
plained Del Ferice's friend, bending down and proceeding to 
tie the silk ribbon. The Prince shrugged his shoulders, and 
retired with Giovanni a few steps back. 

Giovanni," he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, “ if 
you are not more careful, he will do you a mischief. For 
heaven's sake run him through the arm and let us be done 
with it." 

I should have disarmed him that time if his second had not 
stopped us," said Giovanni, calmly. He is ready again," he 
added, come on." 

“ In guard ! " 

Again the two men advanced, and again the foils crossed 
and recrossed and rang loudly in the cold morning air. Once 
more Giovanni pressed upon Del Ferice, and Del Ferice broke 


118 


SABACINESCA. 


ground. In answer to a quick feint, Giovanni made a round 
parry and a sharp short lunge in tierce. 

“ Halt ! yelled Casalverde. Old Saracinesca sprang in, and 
Giovanni lowered his weapon. But Casalverde did not inter- 
pose his sword. A full two seconds after the cry to halt, Del 
Ferice lunged right forward. Giovanni thrust out his arm to 
save his body from the foul attempt — he bad not time to raise 
his weapon. Del Ferice’s sharp rapier entered his wrist and 
tore a long wound nearly to the elbow. 

Giovanni said nothing, but his sword dropped from his hand 
and he turned upon his father, white with rage. The blood 
streamed down his sleeve, and his surgeon came running 
towards him. 

The old man had understood at a glance the foul play that 
had been practised, and going forward laid his hand upon the 
arm of Del Ferice’s second. 

Why did you stop them, sir ? And where was your sword ? ” 
he said in great anger. Del Ferice was leaning upon his friend ; 
a greenish pallor had overspread his face, but there was a smile 
under his colourless moustache. 

My principal was touched,” said Casalverde, pointing to a 
tiny scratch upon Del Ferice’s neck, from which a single drop 
of blood was slowly oozing. 

“ Then why did you not prevent your principal from thrust- 
ing after you cried the halt ? ” asked Saracinesca, severely. 
‘^You have singularly misunderstood your duties, sir, and 
when these gentlemen are satisfied, you will be answerable to 
me.” 

Casalverde was silent. 

“I protest myself wholly satisfied,” said Ugo, with a disa- 
greeable smile, as he glanced to where the surgeon was binding 
up Giovanni^s arm. 

Sir,” said old Saracinesca, fiercely addressing the second, 

I am not here to bandy words with your principal. He may 
express himself satisfied through you, if he pleases. My prin- 
cipal, through me, expresses his entire dissatisfaction.” 

Your principal. Prince,” answered Casalverde, coldly, is 
unable to proceed, seeing that his right arm is injured.” 

^^My son, sir, fences as readily with his left hand as with his 
right,” returned old Saracinesca. 

Del Ferice’s face fell, and his smile vanished instantly. 

“In that case we are ready,” returned Casalverde, unable, 
however, to conceal his annoyance. He was a friend of Del 
Ferice’s and would gladly have seen Giovanni run through the 
body by the foul thrust. 

There was a moments consultation on the other side. 

“ I will give myself the pleasure of killing that gentleman 


SARACIKESOA. 


119 


to-morrow morning/^ remarked Spicca, as he mournfully 
watched the surgeon^s operations. 

‘^Unless I kill him myself to-day,” returned the Prince sav- 
agely, in his white beard. Are you ready, Giovannino ? ” It 
never occurred to him to ask his son if he was too badly hurt 
to proceed. 

Giovanni never spoke, but the hot blood had mounted to his 
temples, and he was dangerously angry. He took the foil they 
gave him, and felt the point quietly. It was sharp as a needle. 
He nodded to his father’s question, and they resumed their 
places, the old Prince this time standing on the left, as his son 
had changed hands. Del Ferice came forward rather timidly. 
His courage had sustained him so far, but the consciousness of 
having done a foul deed, and the sight of the angry man be- 
fore him, were beginning to make him nervous. He felt un- ' 
comfortable, too, at the idea of fencing against a left-handed 
antagonist. 

Giovanni made one or two lunges, and then, with a strange 
movement unlike anything any one present was acquainted 
with, seemed to wind his blade round Del Ferice’s, and, with a 
violent jerk of the wrist, sent the weapon flying across the open 
space. It struck a window of the house, and crashed through 
the panes. 

“ More broken glass ! ” said Giovanni scornfully, as he low- 
ered his point and stepped back two paces. Take another 
sword, sir,” he said; ‘‘ I will not kill you defenceless.” 

Good heavens, Giovannino ! ” exclaimed his father in the 
greatest excitement ; “ where on earth did you learn that trick ? ” 

On my travels, father,” returned Giovanni, with a smile; 

where you tell me I learned so much that was bad. He looks 
frightened,” he added in a low voice, as he glanced at Del Fe- 
rice’s livid face. 

He has cause,” returned the Prince, if he ever had in his 
life!” 

Casalverde and his witness advanced from the other side 
with a fresh pair of foils ; for the one that had gone through 
the window could not be recovered at once, and was probably 
badly bent by the twist it had received. The gentlemen of- 
fered Giovanni his choice. 

If there is no objection I will keep the one I have,” said 
he to his father. The foils were measured, and were found to 
be alike. The two gentlemen retired, and Del Ferice chose a 
weapon. 

“ That is right,” said Spicca, as he slowly went back to his 
place. You should never part with an old friend.” 

We are ready 1 ” was called from the opposite side. 

“In guard, then!” cried the Prince. The angry flush had 


120 


SARACINESCA. 


not subsided from Giovanni’s forehead, as he again went for- 
ward. Del Ferice came up like a man who has suddenly made 
up his mind to meet death, with a look of extraordinary deter- 
mination on his pale face. 

Before they had made half-a-dozen passes Ugo slipped, or 
pretended to slip, and fell upon his right knee; but as he came 
to the ground, he made a sharp thrust upwards under Gio- 
vanni’s extended left arm. 

The old Prince uttered a fearful oath, that rang and echoed 
along the walls of the ancient villa. Del Ferice had executed 
the celebrated feint known long ago as the “ Colpo del Tan- 
credi,” Tancred’s lunge,” from the supposed name of its in- 
ventor. It is now no longer permitted in duelling. But the 
deadly thrust loses half its danger against a left-handed man. 
The foil grazed the flesh on Giovanni’s left side, and the blood 
again stained his white shirt. In the moment when Del Fe- 
rice slipped, Giovanni had made a straight and deadly lunge at 
his body, and the sword, instead of passing through Ugo’s 
lungs, ran swift and sure through his throat, with such force 
that the iron guard struck the falling man’s jaw with tremen- 
dous impetus, before the oath the old Prince had uttered was 
fairly out of his mouth. 

Seconds and witnesses and surgeons sprang forward hastily. 
Del Ferice lay upon his side; he had fallen so heavily and sud- 
denly as to wrench the sword from Giovanni’s grip. The old 
Prince gave one look, and dragged his son away. 

He is as dead as a stone,” he muttered, with a savage gleam 
in his eyes. 

Giovanni hastily began to dress, without paying any atten- 
tion to the fresh wound he had received in the last encounter. 
In the general excitement, his surgeon had joined the group 
about the fallen man. Before Giovanni had got his overcoat 
on he came back with Spicca, who looked crestfallen and disap- 
pointed. 

He is not dead at all,” said the surgeon. “ You did the 
thing with a master’s hand — you ran his throat through with- 
out touching the jugular artery or the spine.” 

“ Does he want to go on ? ” asked Giovanni, so savagely that 
the three men stared at him. 

Do not be so bloodthirsty, Giovannino,” said the old Prince, 
reproachfully. 

I should be justifled in going back and killing him as he 
lies there,” said the younger Saracinesca, flercely. He nearly 
murdered me twice this morning.” 

That is true,” said the Prince, “ the dastardly brute ! ” 

By the bye,” said Spicca, lighting a cigarette, ‘‘ I am afraid 
I have deprived you of the pleasure of dealing with the man 


SAEACI^TESCA. 


121 


who called himself Del Ferice^s second. I just took the oppor- 
tunity of having a moment’s private conversation with him — 
we disagreed a little.” 

‘‘Oh, very well,” growled the Prince; “as you please. I 
daresay I shall have enough to do in taking care of Giovanni 
to-morrow. That is a villanous bad scratch on his arm.” 

“ Bah! it is nothing to mention, save for the foul way it was 
given,” said Giovanni between his teeth. 

Once more old Saracinesca and Spicca crossed the ground. 
There was a word of formality exchanged, to the effect that 
both combatants were satisfied, and then Giovanni and his 
party moved off, Spicca carrying his green bag of foils under 
his arm, and puffing clouds of smoke into the damp morning 
air. They had been nearly an hour on the ground, and were 
chilled with cold, and exhausted for want of sleep. They en- 
tered their carriage and drove rapidly homewards. 

“ Come in and breakfast with us,” said the old Prince to 
Spicca, as they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. 

“ Thank you, no,” answered the melancholy man. “ I have 
much to do, as I shall go to Paris to-morrow morning by the 
ten o’clock train. Can I do anything for you there ? I shall 
he absent some months.” 

“ I thought you were going to fight to-morrow,” objected 
the Prince. 

“ Exactly. It will be convenient for me to leave the country 
immediately afterwards.” 

The old man shuddered. With all his fierce blood and 
headstrong passion, he could not comprehend the fearful calm 
of this strange man, whose skill was such that he regarded his 
adversary’s death as a matter of course whenever he so pleased. 
As for Giovanni, he was still so angry that he cared little for 
the issue of the second duel. 

“ I am sincerely grateful for your kind offices,” he said, as 
Spicca took leave of him. 

“ You shall be amply revenged of the two attempts to mur- 
der you,” said Spicca, quietly; and so, having shaken hands 
with all, he again entered the carriage. It was the last they 
saw of him for a long time. He faithfully fulfilled his pro- 
gramme. He met Casalverde on the following morning at 
seven o’clock, and at precisely a quarter past, he left him dead 
on the field. He breakfasted with his seconds at half-past 
eight, and left Eome with them for Paris at ten o’clock. He 
had selected two French officers who were about to return to 
their home, in order not to inconvenience any of his friends by 
obliging them to leave the country ; which showed that, even 
in moments of great excitement, Count Spicca was thoughtful 
of others. 


122 


SARACINESCA. 


When the surgeon had dressed Giovanni^s wounds, he left 
the father and son together. Giovanni lay upon a couch in 
his own sitting-room, eating his breakfast as best he could 
with one hand. The old Prince paced the floor, commenting 
from time to time upon the events of the morning. 

It is just as well that you did not kill him, Giovannino,” 
he remarked; ‘‘it would have been a nuisance to have been 
obliged to go away just now.^^ 

Giovanni did not answer. 

“ Of course, duelling is a great sin, and is strictly forbidden 
by our religion,^^ said the Prince suddenly. “ But then ” 

“ Precisely returned Giovanni. “ We nevertheless cannot 
always help ourselves.” 

“ I was going to say,” continued his father, “ that it is, of 
course, very wicked, and if one is killed in a duel, one probably 
goes straight into hell. But then — it was worth something 
to see how you sent that fellow’s foil flying through the 
window ! ” 

“ It is a very simple trick. If you will take a foil, I will 
teach it to you.” 

“ Presently, presently ; when you have finished your break- 
fast. Tell me, why did you say, ‘more broken glass’ ?” 

Giovanni bit his lip, remembering his imprudence. 

“ I hardly know. I believe it suggested something to my 
mind. One says all sorts of foolish things in moments of 
excitement.” 

“ It struck me as a very odd remark,” answered the Prince, 
still walking about. “ By the bye,” he added, pausing before 
the writing-table, “ here is that letter you wrote for me. Do 
you want me to read it ? ” 

“No,” said Giovanni, with a laugh. “It is of no use now. 
It would seem absurd, since I am alive and well. It was only 
a word of farewell.” 

The Prince laughed too, and threw the sealed letter into the 
fire. 

“ The last of the Saracinesca is not dead yet,” he said. 
“ Giovanni, what are we to say to the gossips ? All Kome will 
be ringing with this affair before night. Of course, you must 
stay at home for a few days, or you will catch cold in your 
arm. I will go out and carry the news of our victory.” 

“ Better to say nothing about it — better to refer people to 
Del Ferice, and tell them he challenged me. Come in ! ” cried 
Giovanni, in answer to a knock at the door. Pasquale, the old 
butler, entered the room. 

“The Duca d’Astrardente has sent to inquire after the 
health of his Excellency Don Giovanni,” said the old man, 
respectfully. 


SABACIl^ESCA. 123 

The elder Saracinesca paused in his walk, and broke out 
into a loud laugh. 

Already ! You see, Giovannino,’^ he said. “ Tell him, 
Pasquale, that Don Giovanni caught a severe cold at the ball 
last night — or no — wait ! What shall we say, Giovannino ?” 

“ Tell the servant,’^ said Giovanni, sternly, that I am much 
obliged for the kind inquiry, that I am perfectly well, and that 
you have just seen me eating my breakfast.” 

Pasquale bowed and left the room. 

“ I suppose you do not want her to know ” said the 

Prince, who had suddenly recovered his gravity. 

Giovanni bowed his head silently. 

Quite right, my boy,” said the old man, gravely. I do 
not want to know anything about it either. How the devil 
could they have found out ? ” 

The question was addressed more to himself than to. his son, 
and the latter volunteered no answer. He was grateful to his 
father for his considerate silence. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When Astrardente saw the elder Saracinesca^s face during 
his short interview with the diplomatist, his curiosity was 
immediately aroused. He perceived that there was something 
the matter, and he proceeded to try and ascertain the circum- 
stances from his acquaintance. The ambassador returned to 
his 'pdte and his champagne with an air of amused interest, 
hut vouchsafed no information whatever. 

What a singularly amusing fellow old Saracinesca is ! ” 
remarked Astrardente. 

“ When he likes to be,” returned his Excellency, with his 
mouth full. 

On the contrary — when he least meditates it. I never 
knew a man better suited for a successful caricature. Indeed 
he is not a bad caricature of his own son, or his own son of 
him — I am not sure which.” 

The ambassador laughed a little and took a large mouthful. 

" Ha ! ha ! very good,” he mumbled as he ate. “ He would 
appreciate that. He loves his own race. He would rather 
feel that he is a comic misrepresentation of the most hideous 
Saracinesca who ever lived, than possess all the beauty of the 
Astrardente and be called by another name.” 

The diplomatist paused for a second after this speech, and 
then bowed a little to the Duchessa ; but the hit had touched 
her husband in a sensitive spot. The old dandy had been 
handsome once, in a certain way, and he did his best, by arti- 


124 


SARACINESCA. 


ficial means, to preserve some trace of his good looks. The 
Duchessa smiled faintly. 

I would wager, said Astrardente, sourly, that his excited 
manner just now was due to one of two things— either his 
vanity or his money is in danger. As for the way he yelled 
after Spicca, it looked as though there were a duel in the air — 
fancy the old fellow fighting a duel ! Too ridiculous ! 

A duel ! repeated Corona in a low voice. 

“ I do not see anything so very ridiculous in it/* said the 
diplomatist, slowly twisting his glass of champagne in his 
fingers, and then sipping it. Besides,’^ he added delibe- 
rately, glancing at the Duchessa from the corner of his eyes, 
“ he has a son.” 

Corona started very slightly. 

Why should there be a duel ? ” she asked. 

“ It \yas your husband who suggested the idea,” returned 
the diplomatist. 

“ But you said there was nothing ridiculous in it,” objected 
the Duchessa. 

“ But I did not say there was any truth in it, either,” an- 
swered his Excellency with a reassuring smile. What made 
you think of duelling?” he asked, turning to Astrardente. 

Spicca,” said the latter. AVherever Spicca is concerned 
there is a duel. He is a terrible fellow, with his death^s-head 
and dangling bones — one of those extraordinary phenomena — 
bah ! it makes one shiver to think of him ! ” The old fellow 
made the sign of the horns with his forefinger and little finger, 
hiding his thumb in the palm of his hand, as though to pro- 
tect himself against the evil eye — the sinister infiuence invoked 
by the mention of Spicca. Old Astrardente was very super- 
stitious. The ambassador laughed, and even Corona smiled a 
little. 

“ Yes,” said the diplomatist, Spicca is a living memento 
mori ; he occasionally reminds men of death by killing them.” 

How horrible ! ” exclaimed Corona. 

“ Ah, my dear lady, the world is full of horrible things.” 

‘‘ That is not a reason for making jests of them.” 

It is better to make light of the inevitable,” said Astrar- 
dente. Are you ready to go home, my dear ? ” 

“ Quite — I was only waiting for you,” answered Corona, who 
longed to be at home and alone. 

Let me know the result of old Saracinesca’s warlike under- 
takings,” said Astrardente, with a cunning smile on his painted 
face. Of course, as he consulted you, he will send you word 
in the morning.” 

^^You seem so anxious that there should be a duel, that I 
should almost be tempted to invent an account of one^ lest yoi? 


SAKACINESCA. 


125 


should be too grievously disappointed,” returned the diploma- 
tist. 

“ You know very well that no invention will be necessary,” 
said the Duca, pressing him, for his curiosity was roused. 

Well — as you please to consider it. Good night,” replied 
the ambassador. It had amused him to annoy Astrardente a 
little, and he left him with the pleasant consciousness of having 
excited the inquisitive faculty of his friend to its highest .pitch, 
without giving it anything to feed upon. 

Men who have to do with men, rather than with things, fre- 
quently take a profound and seemingly cruel delight in playing 
upon the feelings and petty vanities of their fellow-creatures. 
The habit is as strong with them as the constant practice of 
conjuring becomes with a juggler; even when he is not per- 
forming, he will for hours pass coins, perform little tricks of 
sleight-of-hand with cards, or toss balls in the air in marvellously 
rapid succession, unable to lay aside his profession even for a 
day, because it has grown to be the only natural expression of 
his faculties. With men whose business it is to understand 
other men, it is the same. They cannot be in a man^s com- 
pany for a quarter of an hour without attempting to discover 
the peculiar weaknesses of his character — his vanities, his tastes, 
his vices, his curiosity, his love of money or of reputation; so 
that the operation of such men^s minds may be compared to the 
process of auscultation — for their ears are always upon their 
neighbours’ hearts — and their conversation to the percutations 
of a physician to ascertain the seat of disease in a pair of con- 
sumptive lungs. 

But, with all his failings, Astrardente was a man of consider- 
able acuteness of moral vision. He had made a shrewd guess 
at Saracinesca’s business, and had further gathered from a 
remark dropped by his diplomatic friend, that if there was to be 
a duel at all, it would be fought by Giovanni. As a matter of 
fact, the ambassador himself knew nothing certainly concern- 
ing the matter, or it is possible that, for the sake of observing 
the effect of the news upon the Duchessa, he would have told 
the whole truth; for he had of course heard the current gossip 
concerning Giovanni^s passion for her, and the experiment 
would have been too attractive and interesting to be missed. 
As it was, she had started at the mention of Saracinesca’s son. 
The diplomatist only did what every one else who came near 
Corona attempted to do at that time, in endeavouring to ascer- 
tain whether she herself entertained any feeling for the man 
whom the gossips had set down as her most devoted admirer. 

Poor Duchessa! It was no wonder that she had started at 
the idea that Giovanni was in trouble. He had played a great 
part in her life that day, and she could not forget him. She 


126 


SARACINESCA. 


had hardly as yet had time to think of what she felt, for it was 
only by a supreme effort that she had been able to bear the 
great strain upon her strength. If she had not loved him, it 
would have been different ; and in the strange medley of emo- 
tions through which she was passing, she wished that she might 
never have loved — that, loving, she might be allowed wholly to 
forget her love, and to return by some sudden miracle to that 
cold dreamy state of indifference to all other men, and of un- 
failing thoughtfulness for her husband, from which she had 
been so cruelly awakened. She would have given anything to 
have not loved, now that the great struggle was over; but until 
the supreme moment had come, she had not been willing to 
put the dangerous thought from her, saving in those hours of 
prayer and solitary suffering, when the whole truth rose up 
clearly before her in its undisguised nakedness. So soon as 
she had gone into the world, she had recklessly longed for Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca’s presence. 

But now it was all changed. She had not deceived herself 
when she had told him that she would rather not see him any 
more. It was true; not only did she wish not to see him, but 
she earnestly desired that the love of him might pass from her 
heart. With a sudden longing, her thoughts went back to the 
old convent-life of her girlhood, with its regular occupations, 
its constant religious exercises, its narrowness of view, and its 
unchanging simplicity. What mattered narrowness, when all 
beyond that close limitation was filled with evil ? Was it not 
better that the lips should be busy with singing litanies than 
that the heart should be tormented by temptation ? Were not 
those simple tasks, that had seemed so all-important then, more 
sweet in the performance than the manifold duties of this com- 
plicated social existence, this vast web and woof of life’s loom, 
this great machinery that worked and groaned and rolled end- 
lessly upon its wheels without producing any more result than 
the ceaseless turning of a prison treadmill? But there was no 
way out of life now; there was no escape, as there was also no 
prospect of relief, from care and anxiety. There was no reason 
why Giovanni should go away — no reason either why Corona 
should ever love him less. She belonged to a class of women, 
if there are enough of them to be called a class, who, where 
love is concerned, can feel but one impression, which becomes 
in their hearts the distinctive seal and mark of their lives, for 
good or for evil. Corona was indeed so loyal and good a woman, 
that the strong pressure of her love could not abase her nobility, 
nor put untruth where all was so true; but the sign of her love 
for Giovanni was upon her for ever. The vacant place in her 
heart had been filled, and filled wholly; the bulwark she had 
reared against the love of man was broken down and swept 


SARACINESCA. 


127 


away, and the waters flowed softly over its place and remem- 
bered it not. She would never be the same woman again, and 
it was bitter to her to feel it: for ever the face of Giovanni 
would haunt her waking hours and visit her dreams unbidden, 
— a perpetual reproach to her, a perpetual memory of the most 
desperate struggle of her life, and more than a memory — the 
undying present of an unchanging love. 

She was quite sure of herself in future, as she also trusted 
sincerely in Giovanni^s promise. There should be no moment 
of weakness, no word should ever fall from her lips to tempt 
him to a fresh outbreak of passionate words and acts; her life 
should be measured in the future by the account of the dangers 
past, and there should be no instant of unguarded conduct, no 
hour wherein even to herself she would say it was sweet to love 
and to be loved. It was indeed not sweet, but bitter as death 
itself, to feel that weight at her heart, that constant toiling 
effort in her mind to keep down the passion in her breast. But 
Corona had sacrificed much; she would sacrifice this also; she 
would get strength by her prayers and courage from her high 
pride, and she would smile to all the world as she had never 
smiled before. She could trust herself, for she was doing the 
right and trampling upon the wrong. But the suffering would 
be none the less for all her pride; there was no concealing it — 
it would be horrible. To meet him daily in the world, to speak 
to him and to hear his voice, perhaps to touch his hand, and all 
the while to smile coldly, and to be still and for ever above sus- 
picion, while her own burning consciousness accused her of the 
past, and seemed to make the dangers of mere living yawn 
beside her path at every step, — all this would be terrible to bear, 
but by Gudz’s help she would bear it to the end. 

But now a new horror seized her, and terrified her beyond 
measure. This rumour of a duel — a mere word dropped care- 
lessly in conversation by a thoughtless acquaintance — called up 
to her sudden visions of evil to come. Surely, howsoever she 
might struggle against love and beat it roughly to silence in 
her breast, it was not wrong to fear danger for Giovanni, — it 
could not be a sin to dread the issue of peril when it was all so 
very near to her. It might perhaps not be true, for people in 
the world are willing to amuse their empty minds wdth empty 
tales, acknowledging the emptiness. It could not be true ; she 
had seen Giovanni but a moment before — he would have given 
some hint, some sign. 

Why — after all? Was it not the boast of such men that 
they could face the world and wear an indifferent look, at 
times of the greatest anxiety and danger ? But, again, if Gio- 
vanni had been involved in a quarrel so serious as to require the 
arbitrament of blood, some rumour of it would have reached 


128 


SARACIKESCA. 


her. She had talked witli many men that night, and with 
some women — gossips all, whose tongues wagged merrily over 
the troubles of friend or foe, and who would have battened 
upon anything so novel as a society duel, as a herd of jackals 
upon the dead body of one of their fellows, to make their feast 
oft' it with a light> heart. Some one of all these would have 
told her; the quarrel would have been common property in 
half an hour, for somebody must have witnessed it. 

It was a consolation to Corona to reflect upon the extreme 
improbability of the story; for when the diplomatist was gone, 
her husband dwelt upon it — whether because he could not con- 
ceal his unsatisfled curiosity, or from other motives, it was 
hard to tell. 

Astrardente led his wife from the supper-table through the 
great rooms, now almost deserted, and past the wide doors of 
the hall where the cotillon was at its height. They paused a 
moment and looked in, as Giovanni had done a quarter of an 
hour earlier. It was amagniflcent scene; the lights flashed back 
from the jewels of fair women, and surged in the dance as star- 
light upon rippling waves. The air was heavy with the odour 
of the countless flowers that fllled the deep recesses of the win- 
dows, and were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the 
figures of the cotillon ; enchanting strains of waltz music 
seemed to float down from above and inspire the crowd of men 
and women with harmonious motion, so that sound was made 
visible by translation into graceful movement. As Corona 
looked there was a pause, and the crowd parted, while a huge 
tiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani family, was drawn 
into the hall by the young prince and Bianca Valdarno. The 
magnificent skin had been so artfully stuffed as to convey a 
startling impression of life, and in the creature’s huge jaws 
hung a great basket filled with tiny tigers, which were to be 
distributed as badges for the dance by the leaders. A wild 
burst of applause greeted this novel figure, and every one ran 
forward to obtain a nearer view. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed old Astrardente, I envy them that in- 
vention, my dear; it is perfectly magnificent. You must have 
a tiger to take home. How fortunate we were to be in time ! ” 
He forced his way into the crowd, leaving his wife alone for a 
moment by the door; and he managed to catch Valdarno, who 
was distributing the little emblems to right and left. Madame 
Mayer’s quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her hus- 
band, and from some instinct of curiosity she made towards 
the Duchessa. She was still angry, as she had never been in 
her short life, at Giovanni’s rudeness in forgetting her dance, 
and she longed to inflict some wound upon the beautiful 
woman who had led him into such forgetfulness. When 


SARACINESCA. 


129 


Astrardente left his wife’s side, Donna Tullia pressed forward 
with her partner in the general confusion that followed upon 
the entrance of the tiger, and she managed to pass close to 
Corona. She looked up suddenly with an air of surprise. 

“What! not dancing, Duchessa?” she asked. “Has your 
partner gone home ? ” 

With the look that accompanied the question, it was an 
insulting speech enough. Had Donna Tullia seen old Astrar- 
dente close behind her, she would not have made it. The old 
dandy was returning in triumph in possession of the little 
tiger-badge for Corona. He heard the words, and observed 
with inward pleasure his wife’s calm look of indifference. 

“ Madam,” he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame 
Mayer’s way, “ my wife’s partners do not go home while she 
remains.” 

“ Oh, I see,” returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly; “ the 
Duchessa is dancing the cotillon with you. I beg your pardon 
— I had forgotten that you still danced.” 

“ Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of asking 
you for a quadrille, madam,” answered Astrardente with a 
polite smile; and so saying, he turned and presented the little 
tiger to his wife with a courtly bow. There was good blood in 
the old rouL 

Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get 
her the little keepsake of the dance, and she was still more 
affected by his ready defence of her. He was indeed sometimes 
a little ridiculous, with his paint and his artificial smile — he 
was often petulant and unreasonable in little things; but he 
was never unkind to her, nor discourteous. In spite of her 
cold and indifferent stare at Donna Tullia, she had keenly felt 
the insult, and she was grateful to the old man for taking her 
part. Knowing what she knew of herself that night, she was 
deeply sensible to his kindness. She took the little gift, and 
laid her hand upon his arm. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, as they moved away, “ if I am ever 
ungrateful to you. You are so very good to me. I know no 
one so courteous and kind as you are.” 

Her husband looked at her in delight. He loved her sin- 
cerely with all that remained of him. There was something 
sad in the thought of a man like him finding the only real 
passion of his life when worn out with age and dissipation. 
Her little speech raised him to the seventh heaven of Joy. 

“ I am the happiest man in all Eome,” he said, assuming his 
most Jaunty walk, and swinging his hat gaily between his 
thumb and finger. But a current of deep thought was stirring 
in him as he went down the broad staircase by his wife’s side. 
He was thinking what life might have been to him had he 


130 


SARACINESCA. 


found Corona del Carmine — how could he ? she was not born 
then — had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago. 
He was wondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be 
which he would not make to regain his youth — even to have 
his life lived out and behind him, if he could only have looked 
back to thirty years of marriage with Corona. How differ- 
ently he would have lived, how very differently he would have 
thought! how his whole memory would be full of the sweet 
past, and would be common with her own past life, which, to 
her too, would be sweet to ponder on! He would have been 
such a good man — so true to her in all those years ! But they 
were gone, and he had not found her until his foot was on the 
edge of the grave— until he could hardly count on one year 
more of a pitiful artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the 
semblance of a man by a clever tailor — and she in the bloom 
of her glory beside him ! What he would have given to have 
old Saracinesca’s strength and fresh vitality — old Saracinesca 
whom he hated! Yes, with all that hair — it was white, but a 
little dye would change it. What was a little dye compared 
with the profound artificiality of his own outer man ? How 
the old fellow’s deep voice rang, loud and clear, from his broad 
chest ! How strong he was, with his firm step, and his broad 
brown hands, and his fiery black eyes ! He hated him for the 
greenness of his age — he hated him for his stalwart son, an- 
other of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who seemed des- 
tined to outlive time. He himself had no children, no rela- 
tions, no one to bear his name — he had only a beautiful young 
wife and much wealth, with just enough strength left to affect 
a gay walk when he was with her, and to totter unsteadily to 
his couch when he was alone, worn out with the effort of trying 
to seem young. 

As they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all these 
things, and never spoke. Corona herself was weary, and glad 
to be silent. They went upstairs, and as she took his arm, she 
gently tried to help him rather than be helped. He noticed it, 
and made an effort, but he was very tired. He paused upon 
the landing, and looked at her, and a gentle and sad smile 
stole over his face, such as Corona had never seen there. 

“ Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my love ? ” 
he said ; or will you come into my smoking-room ? I would 
like to smoke a little before going to bed.” 

^‘^You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,” she answered 
kindly, though she was surprised at tlie request. It was half- 
past three o’clock. They went into the softly lighted little 
room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing upon the 
hearth. Corona dropped her furs upon a chair, and sat down 
upon one side of the chimneypiece. Astrardente sank wearily 


SARACIJS’ESCA. 


131 


into a deep easy-chair opposite her, and having found a ciga- 
rette, lighted it, and began to smoke. He seemed in a mood 
which Corona had never seen. After a short silence he spoke. 

Corona,^^ he said, “I love yon.” His wife looked up with a 
gentle smile, and in her determination to be loyal to him she 
almost forgot that other man who had said those words but two 
hours before, so differently. 

Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “ you have heard it before — it is 
not new to you. I think you believe it. You are good, but 
yon do not love me — no, do not interrupt me, my dear; I know 
what you would say. How should you love me ? I am an old 
man — very old, older than my years.” Again he sighed, more 
bitterly, as he confessed what he had never owned before. The 
Duchessa was too much astonished to answer him. 

Corona,” he said again, I shall not live much longer.” 

“Ah, do not speak like that,” she cried suddenly. I trust 
and pray that you have yet many years to live.” Her husband 
looked keenly at her. 

“ You are so good,” he answered, “that you are really capable 
of uttering such a prayer, absurd as it would seem.” 

“ Why absurd ? It is unkind of you to say it 

“No, my dear; I know the world very well. That is all. I 
suppose it is impossible for me to make you understand how I 
love you. It must seem incredible to you, in the magnificence 
of your strength and beautiful youth, that a man like me — an 
artificial man” — he laughed scornfully — “a creature of paint 
and dye — let me be honest — a creature with a wig, should be 
capable of a mad passion. And yet. Corona,” he added, his 
thin cracked voice trembling with a real emotion, “ I do love 
you — very dearly. There are two things that make my life 
bitter : the regret that I did not meet you, that you were not 
born, when I was young; and worse than that, the knowledge 
that I must leave you very soon — I, the exhausted dandy, the 
shadow of what I was, tottering to my grave in a last vain effort 
to be young for your sake — for your sake. Corona dear. Ah, it 
is contemptible!” he almost moaned. 

Corona hid her eyes in her hand. She was taken off her 
guard by his strange speech. 

“Oh, do not speak like that — do not!” she cried. “You 
make me very unhappy. Do I reproach you ? Do I ever 
make you feel that you are — older than I ? I will lead a new 
life; you shall never think of it again. You are too kind — too 
good for me.” 

“ No one ever said I was too good before,” replied the old 
man with a shade of sadness. “ I am glad the one person who 
finds me good, should be the only one for whose sake I ever 
cultivated goodness. I could have been different, Corona, if I 


133 


SARACINESCA. 


had had you for my wife for thirty years, instead of five. But 
it is too late now. Before long I shall be dead, and you will 
be free.^^ 

What makes you say such things to me ? asked Corona. 
“ Can you think I am so vile, so ungrateful, so unloving, as to 
wish your death ? ” 

‘^Not unloving: no, my dear child. But not loving, either. 
I do not ask impossibilities. You will mourn for me a while 
— my poor soul will rest in peace if you feel one moment of 
real regret for me, for your old husband, before you take an- 
other. Do not cry. Corona, dearest; it is the way of the world. 
We waste our youth in scoffing at reality, and in the unrealness 
of our old age the present no longer avails us much. You 
know me, perhaps you despise me. You would not have 
scorned me when I was young — oh, how young I was! how 
strong and vain of my youth, thirty years ago ! 

“Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind. I 
give you all I have,^^ cried Corona, in great distress; “ I will 
give you more — I will devote my whole life to you ” 

“ You do, my dear. I am sensible of it,^^ said Astrardente, 
quietly. “ You cannot do more, if you will; you cannot make 
me young again, nor take away the bitterness of death — of a 
death that leaves you behind.^^ 

Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the 
fire, one hand supporting her chin. The tears stood in her 
eyes and on her cheeks. The old dandy in his genuine misery 
had excited her compassion. 

“ I would mourn you long,” she said. “ You may have 
wasted your life; you say so. I would love you more if I could, 
God knows. You have always been to me a courteous gentle- 
man and a faithful husband.” 

The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and 
came and stood by her, and took the hand that lay idle on her 
knees. She looked up at him. 

“If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would 
bless you for what you say. But I would not have you waste 
your youth. Youth is that which, being wasted, is like water 
poured out upon the ground. You must marry again, and 
marry soon — do not start. You will inherit all my fortune; 
you will have my title. It must descend to your children. It 
has come to an unworthy end in me; it must be revived in 
you.” 

“ How can you think of it ? Are you ill ? ” asked Corona 
kindly, pressing gently his thin hand in hers. “ Why do you 
dwell on the idea of death to-night ? ” 

“I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear,” said the old man, 
gently raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it. 


SARACINESCA. 


133 


What do you mean asked Corona, suddenly rising to her 
feet and laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. 

Why have you never told me ? 

Why should I tell you — except that it is near, and you must 
be prepared ? Why should I burden you with anxiety ? But 
you were so gentle and kind to-night, upon the stairs,’^ he said, 
with some hesitation, ^^that I thought perhaps it would be a 
relief to you to know — to know that it is not for long.^^ 

There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely 
pathetic in his thought that possibly he might lighten the bur- 
den his wife bore so bravely, there was something at last so 
human in the loving regret with which he spoke, that Corona 
forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his false teeth and his 
petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon his shoulder, burst 
into passionate tears. 

Oh no, no! ’’ she sobbed. It must be a long time yet; you 
must not die ! 

“ It may be a year, not more,’^ he said gently. God bless 
you for those tears, Corona — the tears you have shed for me. 
Good night, my dearest.^^ 

He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one 
moment upon her raven hair. Then with a last remnant of 
energy he quickly left the room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Such affairs as the encounter between Giovanni and Del 
Ferice were very rare in Rome. There were many duels 
fought; but, as a general rule, they were not very serious, and 
the first slight wound decided the matter in hand to the satis- 
faction of both parties. But here there had been a fight for 
life and death. One of the combatants had received two such 
wounds as would have been sufficient to terminate an ordinary 
meeting, and the other was lying at death^s door stabbed 
through the throat. Society was frantic with excitement. 
Giovanni was visited by scores of acquaintances, whom he 
allowed to be admitted, and he talked with them cheerfully, in 
order to have it thoroughly known that he was not badly hurt. 
Del Ferice's lodging was besieged by the same young gentlemen 
of leisure, who went directly from one to the other, anxious to 
get all the news in their power. But Del Ferice’s door was 
guarded jealously from intruders by his faithful Neapolitan 
servant — a fellow who knew more about his master than all the 
rest of Rome together, but who had such a dazzlingly brilliant 
talent for lying as to make him a safe repository for any secret 
committed to his keeping. On the present occasion, however, 


134 


SARACINESCA. 


he had small use for duplicity. He sat all day long by the 
open door, for he had removed the bell-handle, lest the ringing 
should disturb his master. He had a basket into which he 
dropped the cards of the visitors who called, answering each 
inquiry with the same unchanging words: 

“ He is very ill, the signorino. Do not make any noise.^’ 

“ Where is he hurt ? the visitor would ask. Whereupon 
Temistocle pointed to his throat. 

“Will he live?” was the next question; to which the man 
answered by raising his shoulders to his ears, elevating his eye- 
brows, and at the same time shutting his eyes, while he spread 
out the palms of his hands over his basket of cards — whereby 
he meant to signify that he did not know, but doubted greatly. 
It being impossible to extract any further information from 
him, the visitor had nothing left but to leave his card and turn 
away. Within, the wounded man was watched by a Sister of 
Mercy. The surgeon had pronounced his recovery probable if 
he had proper care: the wound was a dangerous one, but not 
likely to prove mortal unless the patient died of the fever or of 
exhaustion. 

The young gentlemen of leisure who thus obtained the news of 
the two duellists, lost no time in carrying it from house to house. 
Giovanni himself sent twice in the course of the day to inquire 
after his antagonist, and received by his servant the answer 
which was given to everybody. By the time the early winter 
night was descending upon Rome, there were two perfectly 
well-authenticated stories circulated in regard to the cause of 
the quarrel — neither of which, of course, contained a grain of 
truth. In the first place, it was confidently asserted by one 
party, represented by Valdarno and his set, that Giovanni had 
taken offence at Del Ferice for having proposed to call him to 
be examined before the Duchessa d’Astrardente in regard to 
his absence from town: that this was a palpable excuse for 
picking a quarrel, because it was well known that Saracinesca 
loved the Astradente, and that Del Ferice was always in his wa}^ 

“Giovanni is a rough fellow,” remarked Valdarno, “ and will 
not stand any opposition, so he took the first opportunity of 
getting the man out of the way. Do you see ? The old story 
— jealous of the wrong man. Can one be jealous of Del Fe- 
rice ? Bah ! ” 

“ And who would have been the right man to attack ? ” was 
asked. 

“ Her husband, of course,” returned Valdarno with a sneer. 
.“ That angel of beauty has the ineffably eccentric idea that she 
loves that old transparency, that old magic-lantern slide of a 
man ! ” 

On the other hand, there was a party of people who affirmed, 


SARACINESCA. 


135 


as beyond all doubt, that the duel had been brought about by 
Giovanni’s forgetting his dance with Donna Tullia. Del Fe- 
rice was naturally willing to put himself forward in her de- 
fence, reckoning on the favour he would gain in her eyes. He 
had spoken sharply to Giovanni about it, and told him he had 
behaved in an ungentlemanly manner — whereupon Giovanni 
had answered that it was none of his business; an altercation 
had ensued in a remote room in the Frangipani palace, and 
Giovanni had lost his temper and taken Del Ferice by the 
throat, and otherwise greatly insulted him. The result had 
been the duel in which Del Ferice had been nearly killed. 
There was a show of truth about this story, and it was told in 
such a manner as to make Del Ferice appear as the injured 
party. Indeed, whichever tale were true, there was no doubt 
that the two men had disliked each other for a long time, and 
that they were both looking out for the opportunity of an open 
disagreement. 

Old Saracinesca appeared in the afternoon, and was sur- 
rounded by eager questioners of all sorts. The fact of his 
having served his own son in the capacity of second excited 
general astonishment. Such a thing had not been heard of in 
the annals of Roman society, and many ancient wisdom-mon- 
gers severely censured the course he had pursued. Could any- 
thing be more abominably unnatural ? Was it possible to 
conceive of the hard-heartedness of a man who could stand 
quietly and see his son risk his life ? Disgraceful ! 

The old Prince either would not tell what he knew, or had 
no information to give. The latter theory was improbable. 
Some one made a remark to that effect. 

“ But, Prince,” the man said, would you second your own 
son in an affair without knowing the cause of the quarrel ?” 

Sir,” returned the old man, proudly, my son asked my 
assistance; I did not sell it to him for his confidence.” People 
knew the old man’s obstinacy, and had to be satisfied with his 
short answers, for he was himself as quarrelsome as a Berserker 
or as one of his own irascible ancestors. 

He met Donna Tullia in the street. She stopped her car- 
riage, and beckoned him to come to her. She looked paler 
than Saracinesca had ever seen her, and was much excited. 

How could you let them fight ? ” were her first words. 

It could not be helped. The quarrel was too serious. Ho 
one would more gladly have prevented it than I ; but as my 
son had so desperately insulted Del Ferice, he was bound to 
give him satisfaction.” 

Satisfaction ! ” cried Donna Tullia. ‘‘ Do you call it satis- 
faction to cut a man’s throat ? What was the real cause of the 
quarrel ? 


136 


SARACINESCA. 


I do not know/^ 

‘‘Do not tell me tliat—I do not believe you/' answered 
Donna Tullia, angrily. 

“ I give you my word of honour that I do not know/' returned 
the Prince. 

“ That is different. Will you get in and drive with me for a 
few minutes ? ’' 

“ At your commands." Saracinesca opened the carriage-door 
and got in. 

“We shall astonish the world; but I do not care/' said 
Donna Tullia. “ Tell me, is Don Giovanni seriously hurt ?" 

“No — a couple of scratches that will heal in a week. Del 
Ferice is very seriously wounded." 

“ I know," answered Donna Tullia, sadly. “ It is dreadful — 
I am afraid it was my fault." 

“ How so ? " asked Saracinesca, quickly. He had not heard 
the story of the forgotten waltz, and was really ignorant of the 
original cause of disagreement. He guessed, however, that 
Donna Tullia was not so much concerned in it as the Duchessa 
d'Astrardente. 

“Your son was very rude to me," said Madame Mayer. 
“Perhaps I ought not to tell you, but it is best you should 
know. He was engaged to dance with me the last waltz but 
one before the cotillon. He forgot me, and I found him with 
that — with a lady — talking quietly." 

“With whom did you say?" asked Saracinesca, very gravely. 

“With the Astrardente — if you will know," returned Donna 
Tullia, her auger at the memory of the insult bringing the 
blood suddenly to her face. 

“ My dear lady," said the old Prince, “ in the name of my 
son I offer you the humble apologies which he will make in 
person when he is well enough to ask your forgiveness." 

“ I do not want apologies," answered Madame Mayer, turn- 
ing her face away. 

“Nevertheless they shall be offered. But, pardon my curi- 
osity, how did Del Ferice come to be concerned in that inci- 
dent ? " 

“He was with me when I found Don Giovanni with the 
Duchessa. It is very simple. I was very angry — I am very 
angry still; but I would not have had Don Giovanni risk his 
life on my account for anything, nor poor Del Ferice either. I 
am horribly upset about it all." 

Old Saracinesca wondered whether Donna Tullia's vanity 
would suffer if he told her that the duel had not been fought 
for anything which concerned her. But he reflected that her 
supposition was very plausible, and that he himself had no evi- 
dence. Furthermore, and in spite of his good-natured treat- 


SARACINESCA. 


137 


ment of Giovanni, he was very angry at the thought that his 
son had quarrelled about the Duchessa. When Giovanni 
should be recovered from his wounds he intended to speak his 
mind to him. But he was sorry for Donna Tullia, for he liked 
her in spite of her eccentricities, and would have been satisfied 
to see her married to his son. He was a practical man, and he 
took a prosaic view of the world. Donna Tullia was rich, and 
good-looking enough to be called handsome. She had the 
talent to make herself a sort of centre in her world. She was 
a little noisy; but noise was fashionable, and there was no harm 
in her — no one had ever said anything against her. Besides, 
she was one of the few relations still left to the Saracinesca. 
The daughter of a cousin of the Prince, she would make a good 
wife for Giovanni, and would bring sunshine into the house. 
There was a tinge of vulgarity in her manner; but, like many 
elderly men of his type, Saracinesca pardoned her this fault in 
consideration of her noisy good spirits and general good-nature. 
He was very much annoyed at hearing that his son had offended 
her so grossly by his forgetfulness; especially it was unfortu- 
nate that since she believed herself the cause of the duel, she 
should have the impression that it had been provoked by Del 
Ferice to obtain satisfaction for the insult Giovanni had offered 
her. There would be small chance of making the match con- 
templated after such an affair. 

“ I am sincerely sorry,” said the Prince, stroking his white 
beard and trying to get a sight of his companion's face, which 
she obstinately turned away from him. “ Perhaps it is better 
not to think too much of the matter until the exact circum- 
stances are known. Some one is sure to tell the story one of 
these days.” 

How coldly you speak of it ! One would think it had hap- 
pened in Peru, instead of here, this very morning.” 

Saracinesca was at his wits’ end. He wanted to smooth the 
matter over, or at least to soften the unfavourable impression 
against Giovanni. He had not the remotest idea how to do it. 
He was not a very diplomatic man. 

^^No, no; you misunderstand me. lam not cold. I quite 
appreciate your situation. You are very justly annoyed.” 

“ Of course I am,” said Donna Tullia impatiently. She was 
beginning to regret that she had made him get into her carriage. 

‘^Precisely; of course you are. Now, so soon as Giovanni is 
quite recovered, I will send him to explain his conduct to you 
if he can, or to 

Explain it ? How can he explain it ? I do not want you 
to send him, if he will not come of his own accord. Why 
should I ? ” 

‘‘Well, well, as you please, my dear cousin,” said old Sara- 


138 


SARACIKESCA. 


cinesca, smiling to cover his perplexity. am not a good 
ambassador; but you know I am a good friend, and I really 
want to do something to restore Giovanni to your graces.'’^ 

That will be difficult,’^ answered Donna Tullia, although 
she knew, very well that she would receive Giovanni kindly 
enough when she had once had an opportunity of speaking her 
mind to him. 

“Do not be hard-hearted,^^ urged the Prince. “lam sure 
he is very penitent.^^ 

“ Then let him say so.^^ 

“ That is exactly what I ask.^^ 

“ Is it ? Oh, very well. If he chooses to call I will receive 
him, since you desire it. Where shall I put you down ? 

“ Anywhere, thank you. Here, if you wish — at the corner. 
Good-bye. Do not be too hard on the boy.^^ 

“We shall see,” answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to show 
too much indulgence. The old Prince bowed, and walked 
away into the gloom of the dusky streets. 

“That is over,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder how 
the Astrardente takes it.” He would have liked to see her; 
but he recognized that, as he so very rarely called upon her, it 
would seem strange to choose such a time for his visit. It 
would not do — it would he hardly decent, seeing that he be- 
lieved her to be the cause of the catastrophe. His steps, how- 
ever, led him almost unconsciously in the direction of the As- 
trardente palace; he found himself in front of the arched 
entrance almost before he knew where he was. The temptation 
to see Corona was more than he could resist. He asked the 
porter if the Duchessa was at home, and on being answered in 
the affirmative, he boldly entered and ascended the marble stair- 
case — boldly, but with an odd sensation, like that of a school- 
boy who is getting himself into trouble. 

Corona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire in 
her great drawing-room, alone, with a book in her hand, which 
she was not reading. She rarely remained in the reception- 
rooms; but to-day she had rather capriciously taken a fancy to 
the broad solitude of the place, and had accordingly installed 
herself there. She was very much surprised when the doors 
were suddenly opened wide and the servant announced Prince 
Saracinesca. For a moment she thought it must he Giovanni, 
for his father rarely entered her house, and when the old man^s 
stalwart figure advanced towards her, she dropped her hook in 
astonishment, and rose from her deep chair to meet him. She 
was very pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes that 
spoke of pain and want of sleep. She was so utterly different 
from Donna Tullia, whom he had just left, that the Prince 
was almost awed by her stateliness, and felt more than ever like 


SAEACINESCA. 


139 


a boy in a bad scrape. Corona bowed rather coldly, but ex- 
tended her hand, which the old gentleman raised to his lips 
respectfully, in the manner of the old school. 

I trust you are not exhausted after the ball ? ’’ he began, 
not knowing what to say. 

‘^Not in the least. We did not stay late,” replied Corona, 
secretly wondering why he had come. 

It was really magnificent,” he answered. “ There has been 
no such ball for years. Very unfortunate that it should have 
terminated in such an unpleasant way,” he added, making a 
bold dash at the subject of which he wished to speak. 

“Very. You did a bad morning^s work,” said the Duchessa, 
severely. I wonder that you should speak of it.” 

No one speaks of anything else,” returned the prince, apo- 
logetically. Besides, I do not see what was to be done.” 

You should have stopped it,” answered Corona, her dark 
eyes gleaming with righteous indignation. You should have 
prevented it at any price, if not in the name of religion, which 
forbids it as a crime, at least in the name of decency— as being 
Don GiovannBs father.” 

You speak strong words, Duchessa,” said the Prince, evi- 
dently annoyed at her tone. 

“ If I speak strongly, it is because I think you acted shame- 
fully in permitting this disgraceful butchery.” 

Saracinesca suddenly lost his temper, as he frequently did. 

Madam,” he said, it is certainly not for you to accuse me 
of crime, lack of decency, and what you are pleased to call dis- 
graceful butchery, seeing who was the probable cause of the 
honourable encounter which you characterise in such tasteful 
language.” 

“ Honourable indeed ! ” said Corona, very scornfully. Let 
that pass. Who, pray, is more to blame than you ? Who is 
the probable cause ? ” 

Need I tell you ? ” asked the old man, fixing his flashing 
eyes upon her. 

“ What do you mean ? ” inquired Corona, turning white, and 
her voice trembling between her anger and her emotion. 

I may be wrong,” said the Prince, but I believe I am 
right. I believe the duel was fought on your account.” 

^^On my account!” repeated Corona, half rising from her 
chair in her indignation. Then she sank back again, and 
added, very coldly, “ If you have come here to insult me. 
Prince, I will send for my husband.” 

‘^I beg your pardon, Duchessa,” said old Saracinesca. “It 
is very far from my intention to insult you.” 

“ And who has told you this abominable lie ? ” asked Corona, 
still very angry. 


140 


SARACINESCA. 


No one, upon my word/^ 

“ Tlien how dare you 

Because I have reason to believe that you are the only 
woman alive for whom my son would engage in a quarrel/^ 

It is impossible/^ cried Corona. I will never believe that 
Don Giovanni could She checked herself. 

“ Don Giovanni Saracinesca is a gentleman, madam/’ said the 
old Prince, proudly. He keeps his own counsel. I have come 
by the information without any evidence of it from his lips.” 

Then I am at a loss to understand you,” returned the Du- 
chessa. I must beg you either to explain your extraordinary 
language, or else to leave me.” 

Corona d’Astrardente was a match for any man when she 
was angry. But old Saracinesca, though no diplomatist, was a 
formidable adversary, from his boldness and determination to 
discover the truth at any price. 

It is precisely because, at the risk of offending you, I de- 
sired an explanation, that I have intruded myself upon you 
to-day,” he answered. Will you permit me one question 
before I leave you ? ” 

“ Provided it is not an insulting one, I will answer it,” re- 
plied Corona. > 

Do you know anything of the circumstances which led to 
this morning’s encounter?” 

“ Certainly not,” Corona answered, hotly. I assure you most 
solemnly,” she continued in calmer tones, “ that I am wholly 
ignorant of it. I suppose you have a right to be told that.” 

“ I, on my part, assure you, upon my word, that I know no 
more than you yourself, excepting this : on some provocation, 
concerning which he will not speak, my son seized Del Ferice 
by the throat and used strong words to him. No one witnessed 
the scene. Del Ferice sent the challenge. My son could find 
no one to act for him and applied to me, as was quite right 
that he should. There was no apology possible — Giovanni had 
to give the man satisfaction. You know as much as I know 
now.” 

That does not help me to understand why you accuse me 
of having caused the quarrel,” said Corona. “ What have I to 
do with Del Ferice, poor man ? ” 

This— any one can see that you are as indifferent to my son 
as to any other man. Every one knows that the Duchessa 
d’Astrardente is above suspicion.” 

Corona raised her head proudly and stared at Saracinesca. 

But, on the other hand, every one knows that my son loves 
you madly — can you yourself deny it ? ” 

“ Who dares to say it ? ” asked Corona, her anger rising 
afresh. 


SARACIKESCA. 


141 


Who sees, dares. Can you deny it ? 

You have no right to repeat such hearsay tales to me,” 
answered Corona. But the blush rose to her pale dark cheeks, 
and she suddenly dropped her eyes. 

“ Can you deny it, Duchessa ? ” asked the Prince a third 
time, insisting roughly. 

“ Since you are so certain, why need you care for my denial ? ” 
inquired Corona. 

“ Duchessa, you must forgive me,” answered Saracinesca, his 
tone suddenly softening. ‘'I am rough, probably rude; but I 
love my son dearly. I cannot bear to see him running into a 
dangerous and hopeless passion, from which he may issue only 
to find himself grown suddenly old and bitter, disappointed 
and miserable for the rest of his life. I believe you to be a 
very good woman; I cannot look at you and doubt the truth of 
anything you tell me. If he loves you, you have influence over 
him. If you have influence, use it for his good; use it to 
break down this mad love of his, to show him his own folly — 
to save him, in short, from his fate. Do you understand me ? 
Do I ask too much ? ” 

Corona understood well enough — far too well. She knew the 
whole extent of Giovannfls love for her, and, what old Sara- 
cinesca never guessed, the strength of her own love for him, 
for the sake of which she would do all that a woman could do. 
There was a long pause after the old Prince had spoken. He 
waited patiently for an answer. 

I understand you — yes,” she said at last. “ If you are right 
in your surmises, I should have some influence over your son. 
If I can advise him, and he will take my advice, I will give 
him the best counsel I can. You have placed me in a very 
embarrassing position, and you have shown little courtesy in 
the way you have spoken to me ; but I will try to do as you 
request me, if the opportunity offers, for the sake of — of turn- 
ing what is very bad into something which may at last be good.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, Duchessa ! ” cried the Prince. “ I 
will never forget ” 

Do not thank me,” said Corona, coldly. “ I am not in a 
mood to appreciate your gratitude. There is too much blood 
of those honest gentlemen upon your hands.” 

“ Pardon me, Duchessa, I wish there were on my hands and 
head the blood of that gentleman you call honest — the gentle- 
man who twice tried to murder my son this morning, and twice 
nearly succeeded.” 

What! ” cried Corona, in sudden terror. 

That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while they 
were halting and his sword was hanging lowered in his hand ; 
and once again he threw himself upon his knee and tried to 


142 


SARACIKESCA. 


stab him in the body — which is a dastardly trick not permitted 
in any country. Even in duelling, such things are called 
murder; and it is their right name.^^ 

Corona was very pale. Giovanni^s danger had been suddenly 
brought before her in a very vivid light, and she was horror- 
struck at the thought of it. 

“ Is — is Don Giovanni very badly wounded ? she asked. 

‘^No, thank heaven; he will be well in a week. But either 
one of those attempts might have killed him; and he would 
have died, I think — pardon me, no insult this time — I think, on 
your account. Do you see why for him I dread this attachment 
to you, which leads him to risk his life at every turn for a 
word about you ? Do you see why I implore you to take the 
matter into your serious consideration, and to use your influence 
to bring him to his senses ? ” 

^‘1 see; but in this question of the duel you have no proof 
that I was concerned.'’^ 

No, — no proof, perhaps. I will not weary you with sur- 
mises ; but even if it was not for you this time, you see that it 
might have been.^^ 

Perhaps,^^ said Corona, very sadly. 

I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to me,^^ said 
the Prince, rising. ‘^You have understood me. It was all I 
asked. Good night.” 

“ Good night,” answered Corona, who did not move from her 
seat nor extend her hand this time. She was too much agitated 
to think of formalities. Saracinesca bowed low and left the 
room. 

It was characteristic of him that he had come to see the 
Duchessa not knowing what he should say, and that he had 
blurted out the whole truth, and then lost his temper in support 
of it. He was a hasty man, of noble instincts, but always in- 
clined rather to cut a knot than to unloose it — to do by force 
what another man would do by skill — angry at opposition, and 
yet craving it by his combative nature. 

His first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to Giovanni 
and tell him what he had done; but he reflected as he went 
home that his son was ill with his wounds, and that it would be 
bad for him to be angry, as of course he would be if he were 
told of his father’s doings. Moreover, as old Saracinesca thought 
more seriously of the matter, he wisely concluded that it would 
be better not to speak of the visit ; and when he entered the 
room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a novel and 
a cigarette, he had determined to conceal the whole matter. 

“ Well, Giovanni,” he said, “we are the talk of the town, of 
course.” 

“ It was to be expected. Whom have you seen ? ” 


SARACIKESCA. 


143 


“ In the first place, I have see Madame Mayer. She is in a 
state of anger against yon which borders on madness — not be- 
cause you have wounded Del Ferice, but because you forgot 
to dance with her. I cannot conceive how you could be so 
foolish.” 

“ Nor I. It was idiotic in the last degree,” replied Giovanni, 
annoyed that his father should have learned the story. 

‘‘ You must go and see her at once — as soon as you can go out. 
It is a disagreeable business.” 

‘‘ Of course. What else did she say ? ” 

‘^She thought that Del Ferice had challenged you on her 
account, because you had not danced with her.” 

“ How silly ! As if I should fight duels about her.” 

Since there was probably a woman in the case, she might 
have been the one,” remarked his father. 

There was no woman in the case, practically speaking,” 
said Giovanni, shortly. 

‘‘ Oh, I supposed there was. However, I told Donna Tullia 
that I advised her not to think anything more of the matter 
until the whole story came out.” 

“ When is that likely to occur ? ” asked Giovanni, laughing. 
“ No one alive knows the cause of the quarrel but Del Ferice 
and I myself. He will certainly not tell the world, as the 
thing was even more disgraceful to him than his behaviour 
this morning. There is no reason why I should speak of it 
either.” 

“ How reticent you are, Giovanni ! ” exclaimed the old 
gentleman. 

“Believe me, if I could tell you the whole story without 
injuring any one but Del Ferice, I would.” 

“ Then there was really a woman in the case ? ” 

“ There was a woman outside the case, who caused us to be 
in it,” returned Giovanni. 

“ Always your detestable riddles,” cried the old man, petu- 
lantly; and presently, seeing that his son was obstinately silent, 
he left the room to dress for dinner. 


CHAPTER XV. 

It may be that when Astrardente spoke so tenderly to his 
wife after the Frangipani ball, he felt some warning that told 
him his strength was failing. His heart was in a dangerous 
condition, the family doctor had said, and it was necessary that 
he should take care of himself. He had been very tired after 
that long evening, and perhaps some sudden sinking had shaken 
his courage. He awoke from an unusually heavy sleep with a 


144 


SAHACINESCA. 


strange sense of astonishment, as though he had not expected 
to awake again in life. He felt weaker than he had felt for a 
long time, and even his accustomed beverage of chocolate mixed 
with coffee failed to give him the support he needed in the 
morning. He rose very late, and his servant found him more 
than usually petulant, nor did the message brought back from 
Giovanni seem to improve his temper. He met his wife at the 
midday breakfast, and was strangely silent, and in the afternoon 
he shut himself up in his own rooms and would see nobody. 
But at dinner he appeared again, seemingly revived, and de- 
clared his intention of accompanying his wife to a reception 
given at the Austrian embassy. He seemed so unlike his usual 
self, that Corona did not venture to speak of the duel which 
had taken place in the morning; for she feared anything which 
might excite him, well knowing that excitement might prove 
fatal. She did what she could to dissuade him from going out; 
but he grew petulant, and she unwillingly yielded. 

At the embassy he soon heard all the details, for no one 
talked of anything else; but Astrardente was ashamed of not 
having heard it all before, and affected a cynical indifference to 
the tale which the military attache of the embassy repeated for 
his benefit. He vouchsafed some remark to the effect that 
fighting duels was the natural amusement of young gentlemen, 
and that if one of them killed another there was at least one 
fool the less in society; after which he looked about him for 
some young beauty to whom he might reel off a score of com- 
pliments. He knew all the time that he was making a great 
effort, that he felt unaccountably ill, and that he wished he had 
taken his wife’s advice and stayed quietly at home. But at the 
end of the evening he chanced to overhear a remark that Val- 
darno was making to Casalverde^ who looked exceedingly pale 
and ill at ease. 

You had better make your will, my dear fellow,” said Val- 
darno. Spicca is a terrible man with the foils.” 

Astrardente turned quickly and looked at the speaker. But 
both men were suddenly silent, and seemed absorbed in gazing at 
the crowd. It was enough, however. Astrardente had gathered 
that Casalverde was to fight Spicca the next day, and that the 
affair begun that morning had not yet reached its termination. 
He determined that he would not again be guilty of not know- 
ing what was going on in society; and with the intention of 
rising early on the following morning, he found Corona, and 
rather unceremoniously told her it was time to go home. 

On the next day the Duca d’ Astrardente walked into the club 
soon after ten o’clock. On ordinary occasions that resort of his 
fellows was entirely empty until a much later hour; but Astrar- 
dente was not disappointed to-day. Twenty or thirty men were 


SARACINESCA. 


145 


congregated in the large hall which served as a smoking-room, 
and all of them were talking together excitedly. As the door 
swung on its hinges and the old dandy entered, a sudden silence 
fell upon the assembly. Astrardente naturally judged that the 
conversation had turned upon himself, and had been checked 
by his appearance; but he affected to take no notice of the 
occurrence, adjusting his single eyeglass in his eye and serenely 
surveying the men in the room. He could see that, although 
they had been talking loudly, the matter in hand was serious 
enough, for there was no trace of mirth on any of the faces be- 
fore him. He at once assumed an air of gravity, and going up to 
Valdarno, who seemed to have occupied the most prominent place 
in the recent discussion, he put his question in an undertone. 

‘‘ I suppose Spicca killed him ? 

Valdarno nodded, and looked grave. He was a thoughtless 
young fellow enough, but the news of the tragedy had sobered 
him. Astrardente had anticipated the death of Casalverde, 
and was not surprised. But he was not without human feeling, 
and showed a becoming regret at the sad end of a man he had 
been accustomed to see so frequently. 

“ How was it ? he asked. 

^^A simple ^un, deux,’ tierce and carte at the first bout. 
Spicca is as quick as lightning. Oorne away from this crowd,” 
added Valdarno, in a low voice, and I will tell you all about it.” 

In spite of his sorrow at his friend’s death, Valdarno felt a 
certain sense of importance at being able to tell the story to 
Astrardente. Valdarno was vain in a small way, though his 
vanity was to that of the old Duca as the humble violet to the 
full-blown cabbage-rose. Astrardente enjoyed a considerable 
importance in society as the husband of Corona, and was an 
object of especial interest to Valdarno, who supported the in- 
credible theory of Corona’s devotion to the old man. Valdar- 
no’s stables were near the club, and on pretence of showing a 
new horse to Astrardente, he nodded to his friends, and left the 
room with the aged dandy. It was a clear, bright winter’s 
morning, and the two men strolled slowly down the Corso 
towards Valdarno’s palace. 

“You know", of course, how the affair began?” asked the 
young man. 

“ The first duel ? Nobody knows — certainly not I.” 

“Well — perhaps not,” returned Valdarno, doubtfully. “At 
all events, you know that Spicca fiew into a passion because 
poor Casalverde forgot to step in after he cried halt; and then 
Del Ferice ran Giovanni through the arm.” 

“ That was highly improper — most reprehensible,” said As- 
trardente, putting up his eyeglass to look at a pretty little 
sempstress who hurried past on her way to her w"ork^ 


146 


SARACINESCA. 


I suppose SO. But Oasalverde certainly meant no harm ; and 
if Del Ferice had not been so unlucky as to forget himself in 
the excitement of the moment, no one would have thought any- 
thing of it.'’^ 

Ah yes, I suppose not,” murmured Astrardente, still look- 
ing after the girl. When he could see her face no longer, he 
turned sharply back to Valdarno. 

This is exceedingly interesting,” he said. ^^Tell me more 
about it.” 

Well, when it was over, old Saracinesca was for killing 
Oasalverde himself.” 

“ The old fire-eater ! He ought to be ashamed of himself.” 

However, Spicca was before him, and challenged Oasalverde 
then and there. As both the principals in the first duel were 
so badly wounded, it had to be put off until this morning.” 

‘‘ They went out, and — piff, pafi ! Spicca ran him through,” 
interrupted Astrardente. What a horrible tragedy ! ” 

Ah yes ; and what is worse ” 

“ What surprises me most,” interrupted the Duca again, is 
that in this delightfully peaceful and paternally governed little 
nest of ours, the authorities should not have been able to pre- 
vent either of these duels. It is perfectly amazing ! I cannot 
remember a parallel instance. Do you mean to say that there 
was not a spirro or a geyidarme in the neighbourhood to-day 
nor yesterday ? ” 

That is not so surprising,” answered Valdarno, with a 
knowing look. There would have been few tears in high 
quarters if Del Ferice had been killed yesterday; there will be 
few to-day over the death of poor Oasalverde.” 

Bah ! ” ejaculated Astrardente. If Antonelli had heard 
of these affairs he would have stopped them soon enough.” 

Valdarno glanced behind him, and, bending a little, whis- 
pered in Astrardente’s ear — 

“ They were both Liberals, you must know.” 

“ Liberals ? ” repeated the old dandy, with a cynical sneer. 
“ Nonsense, I say ! Liberals ? Yes, in the way you are a Lib- 
eral, and Donna Tullia Mayer, and Spicca himself, who has just 
killed that other Liberal, Oasalverde. Liberals indeed ! Do 
you flatter yourself for a moment that Antonelli is afraid of 
such Liberals as you are ? Do you think the life of Del Ferice 
is of any more importance to politics than the life of that dog 

It was Astrardente’s habit to scoff mercilessly at all the petty 
manifestations of political feeling he saw about him in the 
world. He represented a class distinct both from the Valdarno 
set and from the men represented by the Saracinesca — a class 
who despised everything political as unworthy of the attention 


SAEACINESCA. 


147 


of gentlemen, who took everything for granted, and believed 
that all was for the best, provided that society moved upon 
rollers and so long as no one meddled with old institutions. 
To question the wisdom of the municipal regulations was to 
attack the Government itself; to attack the Government was 
to cast a slight upon his Holiness the Pope, which was rank 
heresy, and very vulgar into the bargain. Astrardente had 
seen a great deal of the world, but his ideas of politics were 
almost childishly simple — whereas many people said that his 
principles in relation to his fellows were fiendishly cynical. He 
was certainly not a very good man; and if he pretended to no 
reputation for devoutness, it was probable that he recognised 
the absurdity of his attempting such a pose. But politically 
he believed in Cardinal Antonelli’s ability to defy Europe with 
or without the aid of France, and laughed as loudly as Louis 
Napoleon^s old idea of putting the sovereign Pontiff at the head 
of an Italian federation, as he Jeered at OavouPs favourite 
phrase concerning a free Church in a free State. He had good 
blood in him, and the hereditary courage often found with it. 
He had a certain skill in matters worldly; but his wit in things 
political seemed to belong to an earlier generation, and to be 
incapable of receiving new impressions. 

But Yaldarno, who was vain and set great value on his opin- 
ions, was deeply offended at the way Astrardente spoke of him 
and his friends. In his eyes he was risking much for what he 
considered a good object, and he resented any contemptuous 
mention of Liberal principles, whenever he dared. No one 
cared much for Astrardente, and certainly no one feared him; 
nevertheless in those times men hesitated to defend anything 
which came under the general head of Liberalism, when they 
were likely to be overheard, or when they could not trust the 
man to whom they were speaking. If no one feared Astrar- 
dente, no one trusted him either. Yaldarno consequently 
Judged it best to smother his annoyance at the old man^s words, 
and to retaliate by striking him in a weak spot. 

“ If you despise Del Ferice as much as you say,” he remarked, 

wonder that you tolerate him as you do.” 

“ I tolerate him. Toleration is the very word — it delightfully 
expresses my feelings towards him. He is a perfectly harmless 
creature, who affects immense depth of insight into human 
affairs, and who cannot see an inch before his face. Dear me ! 
yes, I shall always tolerate Del Ferice, poor fellow ! ” 

You may not be called upon to do so much longer,” re- 
plied Yaldarno. “ They say he is in a very dangerous condi- 
tion ! ” 

Ah ! ” ejaculated Astrardente, putting up his eyeglass at 
his companion. Ah, you donT say so ! ” 


148 


SARACI^STESCA. 


There was something so insolent in the old man’s affected 
stare that even the foolish and good-natured Valdarno lost his 
temper, being already somewhat irritated. 

It is a pity that you should be so indifferent. It is hardly 
becoming. If you had not tolerated him as you have, he might 
not be lying there at the point of death.” 

Astrardente stared harder than ever. 

“My dear young friend,” he said, “your language is the 
most extraordinary I ever heard. How in the world can my 
treatment of that unfortunate man have had anything to do 
with his being wounded in a duel ? ” 

“ My dear old friend,” replied Valdarno, impudently mim- 
icking the old man’s tone, “yonr simplicity surpasses anything 
I ever knew. Is it possible that you do not know that this 
duel was fought for your wife ? ” 

Astrardente looked fixedly at Valdarno; his eyeglass dropped 
from his eye, and he turned ashy pale beneath his paint. He 
staggered a moment, and steadied himself against the door of a 
shop. They were just passing the corner of the Piazza di 
Sciarra, the most crowded crossing of the Corso. 

“ Valdarno,” said the old man, his cracked voice dropping to 
a hoarser and deeper tone, “you must explain yourself or an- 
swer for this.” 

“What! Another duel!” cried Valdarno, in some scorn. 
Then, seeing that his companion looked ill, he took him by the 
arm and led him rapidly through the crowd, across the Arco 
dei Carbognani. Entering the Oaff^ Aragno, a new institution 
in those days, both men sat down at a small marble table. The 
old dandy was white with emotion; Valdarno felt that he was 
enjoying his revenge. 

“A glass of cognac, Duke?” he said, as the waiter came up. 
Astrardente nodded, and there was silence while the man 
brought the cordial. The Duca lived by an invariable rule, 
seeking to balance the follies of his youth by excessive care in 
his old age; it was long, indeed, since he had taken a glass of 
brandy in the morning. He swallowed it quickly, and the 
stimulant produced its effect immediately; he readjusted his 
eyeglass, and faced Valdarno sternly. 

“ And now,” he said, “ that we are at our ease, may I in- 
quire what the devil you mean by your insinuations about my 
wife ? ” 

“ Oh,” replied Valdarno, affecting great indifference, “ I only 
say what everybody says. There is no offence to the Duchessa.” 

“I should suppose not, indeed. Go on.” 

“ Do you really care to hear the story ? ” asked the young man. 

“ I intend to hear it, and at once,” replied Astrardente. 

“ You will not have to employ force to extract it from me, I 


SARACIN^ESCA. 


149 


can assure you/^ said Valdarno, settling himself in his chair, 
but avoiding the angry glance of the old man. Everybody 
has been repeating it since the day before yesterday, when it 
occurred. You were at the Frangipani ball — you might have 
seen it all. In the first place, you must know that there exists 
another of those beings to whom you extend your merciful tole- 
ration — a certain Giovanni Saracinesca — you may have noticed 
him ?” 

“ \yhat of him ? ’’ asked Astrardente, fiercely. 

“ Among other things, he is the man who wounded Del Fe- 
rice, as I daresay you have heard. Among other things con- 
cerning him, he has done himself the honour of falling despe- 
rately, madly in love with the Duchessa d^Astrardente, who 

“What cried the old man in a cracked voice, as Valdarno 
paused. 

“ Who does you the honour of ignoring his existence on most 
occasions, but who was so unfortunate as to recall him to her 
memory on the night of the Frangipani ball. We were all sit- 
ting in a circle round the Duchessa^s chair that night, when 
the conversation chanced to turn upon this same Giovanni 
Saracinesca, a fire-eating fellow with a bad temper. He had 
been away for some days; indeed he was last seen at the Apollo 
in your box, when they gave ‘ Norma ^ ” 

“ I remember,’^’ interrupted Astrardente. The mention of 
that evening was but a random shot. Valdarno had been in the 
club-box, and had seen Giovanni w^hen he made his visit to the 
Astrardente ; he had not seen him again till the Frangipani ball. 

“Well, as I was saying, we spoke of Giovanni, and every one 
had something to say about his absence. The Duchessa ex- 
pressed her curiosity, and Del Ferice, who was with us, pro- 
posed calling him — he was at the other end of the room, you 
see — that he might answer for himself. So I went and brought 
iiim up. He was in a very bad humour ” 

“ What has all this absurd story got to do with the matter ? ’’ 
asked the old man, impatiently. 

“ It is the matter itself. The irascible Giovanni is angry at 
being questioned, treats us all like mud under his feet, sits 
down by the Duchessa and forces us to go away. The Du- 
chessa tells him the story, with a laugh no doubt, and Gio- 
vanni’s wrath overflows. He goes in search of Del Ferice, and 
nearly strangles him. The result of these eccentricities is the 
first duel, leading to the second.” 

Astrardente was very angry, and his thin gloved hands 
twitched nervously at the handle of his stick. 

^^And this,” he said — “this string of trivial ball-room inci- 
dent, seems to you a sufficient pretext for stating that the duel 
was about my wife ? ” 


150 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Certainly,” replied Vardarno, coolly. If Saracinesca had 
not been for months openly devoting himself to the Duchessa 
— who, I assure you, takes no kind of notice of him ” 

^^You need not waste words ” 

I do not, — and if Giovanni had not thought it worth while 
to be jealous of Del Ferice, there would have been no fighting.” 

Have you been telling your young friends that my wife was 
the cause of all this ? ” asked Astrardente, trembling with a 
genuine rage which lent a certain momentary dignity to his 
feeble frame and painted face. 

‘‘Why not?” 

“ Have you or have you not ?” 

“Certainly — if you please,” returned Valdarno insolently, 
enjoying the old man^s fury. 

“ Then permit me to tell you that you have taken upon 
yourself an outrageous liberty, that you have lied, and that you 
do not deserve to be treated like a gentleman.” 

Astrardente got upon his feet and left the cafe without fur- 
ther words. Valdarno had indeed wounded in a weak spot, 
and the wound was mortal. His blood was up, and at that 
moment he would have faced Valdarno sword in hand, and 
might have proved himself no mean adversary, so great is the 
power of anger to revive in the most decrepit the energies of 
youth. He believed in his wife with a rare sincerity, and his 
blood boiled at the idea of her being rudely spoken of as the 
cause of a scandalous quarrel, however much Valdarno insisted 
upon it that she was as indifferent to Giovanni as to Del Fe- 
rice. The story was a shallow invention upon the face of it. 
But though the old man told himself so again and again as he 
almost ran through the narrow streets towards his house, there 
was one thought suggested by Valdarno which rankled deep. 
It was true that Giovanni had last been seen in the Astrardente 
box at the opera; but he had not remained five minutes seated 
by the Duchessa before he had suddenly invented a shallow 
excuse for leaving; and finally, there was no doubt that at that 
very moment Corona had seemed violently agitated. Gio- 
vanni had not reappeared till the night of the Frangipani ball, 
and the duel had taken place on the very next morning. As- 
trardente could not reason — his mind was too much disturbed 
by his anger against Valdarno; but a vague impression that 
there was something wrong in it all, drove him homewards in 
wild excitement. He was ill, too, and had he been in a frame 
of mind to refiect upon himself, he would have noticed that 
liis heart was beating with ominous irregularity. He did not 
even think of taking a cab, but hurried along on foot, finding, 
perhaps, a momentary relief in violent exertion. The old blood 
rushed to his face in good earnest, and shamed the delicately 


SAKACIKESCA. 


151 


painted lights and shadows touched in by the master-hand of 
Monsieur Isidore, the cosmopolitan valet. 

Valdarno remained seated in the caf5, rather disturbed at 
what he had done. He certainly had had no intention of 
raising such a storm ; he was a weak and good-natured fellow, 
whose vanity was easily wounded, but who was not otherwise 
very sensitive, and was certainly not very intelligent. Astrar- 
dente had laughed at him and his friends in a way which 
touched him to the quick, and with childish petulance he had 
retaliated in the easiest way which presented itself. Indeed 
there was more foundation for his tale than Astrardente w^ould 
allow. At least it was true that the story was in the mouths 
of all the gossips that morning, and Valdarno had only repeated 
what he had heard. He had meant to annoy the old man ; he 
had certainly not intended to make him so furiously angry. 
As for the deliberate insult he had received, it was undoubt- 
edly very shocking to be told that one lied in such very plain 
terms ; but on the other hand, to demand satisfaction of such 
an old wreck as Astrardente would be ridiculous in the ex- 
treme. Valdarno was incapable of very violent passion, and 
was easily persuaded that he was in the wrong when any one 
contradicted him flatly; not that he was altogether devoid of a 
certain physical courage if hard pushed, but because he was 
not very strong, not very confldent of himself, not very com- 
bative, and not very truthful. When Astrardente was gone, he 
waited a few minutes, and then sauntered up the Oorso again 
towards the club, debating in his mind how he should turn a 
good story out of his morning's adventure without making him- 
self appear either foolish or pusillanimous. It was also neces- 
sary so to turn his narrative that in case any one repeated it to 
Giovanni, the latter might not propose to cut his throat, though 
it was not probable that any one would be bold enough to desire 
a conversation with the younger Saracinesca on such a subject. 

When he again entered the smoking-room of the club, he 
was greeted by a chorus of inquiries concerning his interview 
with Astrardente. 

What did he ask ? What did he say ? Where is he ? 
What did you tell him ? Hid he drop his eyeglass ? Hid he 
blush through his paint ? ” 

Everybody spoke together in the same breath. Valdarno’s 
vanity rose to the occasion. Weak and insignifleant by nature, 
he particularly delighted in being the centre of general inter- 
est, if even for a moment only. 

‘‘ He really dropped his eyeglass,’^ he answered, with a gay 
laugh, ^^and he really changed colour in spite of his paint.^^ 

“ It must have been a terrible interview, then,’’ remarked 
one or two of the loungers. 


152 


SARACII^ESCA. 


“ I. shall be happy to offer yon my services in case yon wish 
to cut each other’s throats,” said a French officer of the Papal 
Zonaves who stood by the fireplace rolling a cigarette. Where- 
upon everybody laughed londly. 

Thanks,” answered Yaldarno; “I am expecting a challenge 
every minute. If he proposes a powder-pnff and a box of 
ronge for the weapons, I accept without hesitation. Well, it 
w^as very amusing. He wanted to know all about it, and so I 
told him about the scene in Casa Frangipani. He did not seem 
to understand at all. He is a very obtuse old gentleman.” 

I hope yon explained the connection of events,” said some 

one. 

Indeed I did. It was delightful to witness his fnry. It 
was then that he dropped his eyeglass and turned as red as a 
boiled lobster. He swore that his wife was above snspicion, as 
nsnal.” 

“ That is true,” said a young man who had attempted to 
make love to Corona during the previous year. 

“ Of course it is true,” echoed all the rest, with unanimity 
rare indeed where a woman’s reputation is concerned. 

Yes,” continned Yaldarno, ‘^of course. Bnt he goes so far 
as to say it is absurd that any one should admire his wife, who 
is nevertheless a most admirable woman. He stamped, he 
screamed, he turned red in the face, and he went off without 
taking leave of me, flourishing his stick, and swearing eternal 
hatred and vengeance against the entire civilised society of 
the world. He was delightfully amusing. Will anybody play 
baccarat ? I will start a bank.” 

The majority were for the game, and in a few minutes were 
seated at a large green table, drawing cards and betting with a 
good will, and interspersing their play with stray remarks on 
the events of the morning. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

Corona was fast coming to a state of mind in which a kind 
of passive expectation — a sort of blind submission to fate — 
was the chief feature. She had shed tears when her husband 
spoke of his approaching end, because her gentle heart was 
grateful to him, and by its own sacrifices had grown used to 
his presence, and because she suddenly felt that she had com- 
prehended the depth of his love for her, as she had never 
understood it before. In the five years of married life she had 
spent with him, she had not allowed herself to think of his 
selfishness, of his small daily egotism; for, though it was at no 
great expense to himself^ he had been uniformly generous and 


SARACINESCA. 


153 


considerate to her. But she liad been conscious that if she 
should ever remove from her conscience the pressure of a self- 
imposed censorship, so that her judgment might speak boldly, 
the verdict of her heart would not have been so indulgent to 
her husband as was that formal opinion of him which she 
forced herself to hold. Now, however, it seemed as though 
the best things she had desired to believe of him were true; 
and with the conviction that he was not only not selfish, but 
absolutely devoted to herself, there had come upon her a fear 
of desolation, a dread of being left alone — of finding herself 
abandoned by this strange companion, the only person in the 
world with whom she had the habit of familiarity and the 
bond of a common past. Astrardente had thought, and had 
told, her too, that the knowledge of his impending death might 
lighten her burden — might make the days of self-sacrifice that 
yet remained seem shorter ; he had spoken kindly of her mar- 
rying again when he should be dead, deeming perhaps, in his 
sudden burst of generosity, that she would be capable of look- 
ing beyond the unhappy present to the possibilities of a more 
brilliant future, or at least that the certainty of his consent to 
such a second union would momentarily please her. It was 
hard to say why he had spoken.. It had been an impulse such 
as the most selfish people sometimes yield to when their 
failing strength brings upon them suddenly the sense of their 
inability to resist any longer the course of events. The vanity 
of man is so amazing that when he is past arrogating to him- 
self the attention which is necessary to him as his daily bread, 
he is capable of so demeaning his manhood as to excite interest 
in his weaknesses rather than that he should cease to be the 
object of any interest whatever. The analysis of the feelings 
of old and selfish persons is the most difficult of all studies ; 
for in proportion as the strength of the dominant passion or 
passions is quenched in the bitter still waters of the harbour 
of superannuation, the small infiuences of life grow in impor- 
tance. As when, from the breaking surge of an angry ocean, 
the water is dashed high among the re-echoing rocks, leaving 
little pools of limpid clearness in the hollows of the storm- 
beaten cliffs ; and as when the anger of the tossing waves has 
subsided, the hot sun shines upon the mimic seas, and the clear 
waters that were so transparent grow thick and foul with the 
motion of a tiny and insignificant insect-life undreamed of 
before in such crystal purity: so also the clear strong sea of 
youth is left to dry in the pools and puddles of old age, and in 
the motionless calm of the still places where the ocean of life 
has washed it, it is dried up and consumed by myriads of tiny 
parasites — lives within lives, passions within passions — tiny 
efforts at mimic greatness,— a' restless little world, the very 


154 


SARACINESCA. 


parody and infinitesimal reproduction of the mighty fiood 
whence it came, wherein great monsters have their being, and 
things of unspeakable beauty grow free in the large depths of 
an unfathomed ocean. 

To Corona d’Astrardente in the freshness of her youth the 
study of her husband^s strange littleness had grown to be a 
second nature from the habit of her devotion to him. But she 
could not understand him; she could not explain to herself the 
sudden confession of old age, the quiet anticipation of death, 
the inexplicable generosity towards herself. She only knew 
that he must be at heart a man more kindly and of better im- 
pulse than he had generally been considered, and she resolved 
to do her utmost to repay him, and to soothe the misery of his 
last years. 

Since he had told her so plainly, it must he true. It was 
natural, perhaps — for he was growing more feeble every day — 
but it was very sad. Five years ago, when she had choked 
down her loathing for the old man to whom she had sold herself 
for her fathers sake, she would not have believed that she 
should one day feel the tears rise fast at the thought of his 
dying ^d leaving her free. He had said it; she would he 
free, /^hey say that men who have been long confined in a 
dungeon become indifferent, and when turned out upon the 
world would at first gladly return to their prison walls. 
Liberty is in the first place an instinct, but it will easily grow 
to be a habit. Corona had renounced all thought of freedom 
\ five years ago, and in the patient bowing of her noble nature 
to the path she had chosen, she had attained to a state of 
renunciation like that of a man who has buried himself for ever 
in an order of Trappists, and neither dreams of the freedom of 
I the outer world, nor desires to dream of it. And she had 
* grown fond of the aged dandy and his foolish ways — ways 
which seemed foolish because they were those of youth grafted 
upon senility. She had not known that she was fond of him, 
it is true; but now that he spoke of dying, she felt that she 
would weep his loss. He was her only companion, her only 
friend. In the loyal determination to be faithful to him, she 
had so shut herself from all intimacy with the world that she 
had not a friend. She kept women at a distance from her, in- 
stinctively dreading lest in their careless talk some hint or 
comment should remind her that she had married a man 
ridiculous in their eyes; and with men she could have but 
little intercourse, for their society was dangerous. No man 
save Giovanni Saracinesca had for years put himself in the 
light of a mere acquaintance, always ready to talk to her upon 
general subjects, studiously avoiding himself in all discussions, 
and delicately fiattering her vanity by his deference to her judg- 


SAEACINESCA. 


155 


ment. The other men had generally spoken of love at the 
second meeting, and declared themselves devoted to her for 
life at the end of a week: she had quietly repulsed them, and 
they had dropped back into the position of inditferent ac- 
quaintances, going in search of other game, after the manner 
of young gentlemen of leisure. Giovanni alone had sternly 
maintained his air of calmness, had never otfended her simple 
pride of loyalty to Astrardente by word or deed; so that, 
although she felt and dreaded her growing interest in him, 
she had actually believed that he was nothing in her life, until 
at last she had been undeceived and awakened to the know- 
ledge of his fierce passion, and being taken unawares, had 
nearly been carried off her feet by the tempest his words 
had roused in her own breast. But her strength had not 
utterly deserted her. Years of supreme devotion to the right, ' 
of honest and unwavering loyalty, neither deceiving her con- 
science on the one hand with the morbid food of a fictitious 
religious exaltation, nor, upon the other, sinking to a cynical 
indifference to inevitable misery; days of quiet and constant 
effort; long hours of thoughtful meditation upon the one 
resolution of her life, — all this had strengthened the natural 
force of her character, so that, when at last the great trial had 
come, she had not yielded, but had conquered once and for 
ever, in the very moment of sorest temptation. And with her 
there would be no return of the danger. Having found 
strength to resist, she knew that there would be no more 
weakness; her love for Giovanni was deep and sincere, but 
it had become now the chief cause of suffering in her life; it 
had utterly ceased to be the chief element of joy, as it had been 
for a few short days. It was one thing more to be borne, and 
it outweighed all other cares. 

The news of the duel had given her great distress. She 
believed honestly that she was in no way concerned in it, and 
she had bitterly resented old Saracinesca's imputation. In the 
hot words that had passed between them, she had felt her 
anger rise justly against the old Prince; but when he appealed 
to her on account of his son, her love for Giovanni had van- 
quished her wrath against the old man. Come what might, 
she would do what was best for him. If possible, she would 
induce him to leave Home at once, and thus free herself from 
the pain of constantly meeting him. Perhaps she could make 
him marry — anything would be better than to allow things to go 
on in their present course, to have to face him at every tura, 
and to know that at any moment he might be quarrelling with 
somebody and fighting duels on her account. 

She went boldly into the world that night, not knowing 
whether she should meet Giovanni or not, but resolved upon 


156 


SAEACIl^ESCA. 


her course if he appeared. Many people looked curiously at 
her, and smiled cunningly as they thought they detected traces 
of care upon her proud face; but though they studied her, and 
lost no opportunity of talking to her upon the one topic which 
absorbed the general conversation, no one had the satisfaction of 
moving her even so much as to blush a little, or to lower the gaze of 
her eyes that looked them all indifferently through and through. 

Giovanni, however, did not appear, and people told her he 
would not leave his room for several days, so that she returned 
to her home without having accomplished anything in the 
matter. Her husband was very silent, but looked at her with 
an expression of uncertainty, as though hesitating to speak to 
her upon some subject that absorbed his interest. Neither of 
them referred to the strange interview of the previous night. 
They went home early, as has been already recorded, seeing it 
was only a great and formal reception to which the world went 
that night; and even the toughest old society jades were Aveary 
from the ball of the day before, which had not broken up until 
half-past six in the morning. 

On the next day, at about twelve o’clock. Corona Avas sitting 
in her boudoir Avriting a number of mvitations which w^ere to 
be distributed in the afternoon, when the door opened and her 
husband entered the room. 

‘‘My dear,” he cried in great excitement, “it is perfectly 
horrible ! Have you heard ? ” 

“What?” asked Corona, laying down her pen. 

“ Spicca has killed Casalverde — the man Avho seconded Del 
Ferice yesterday, — killed him on the spot ” 

Corona uttered an exclamation of horror. 

“ And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying ” — his 
cracked voice rose at every word ; “ and they say,” he almost 
screamed, laying his Avithered hand roughly upon his Avife’s 
shoulder,— “ they say that the duel was about you— you, do you 
understand ?” 

“ That is not true,” said Corona, firmly. “ Calm yourself — 
I beseech you to be calm. Tell me connectedly what has hap- 
pened — w'ho told you this story.” 

“ What right has any man to drag your name into a quar- 
rel ?” cried the old man, hoarsely. “ Everybody is saying it — 
it is outrageous, abominable ” 

Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat 
down beside him. 

“ You are excited— you will harm yourself, — remember your 
health,” she said, endeavouring to soothe him. “ Tell me, in 
the first place, who told you that it Avas about me.” 

“ Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it 
— that it Avas the talk of the town.” 


SARACINESCA. 


157 


“But why?” insisted Corona. “You allow yourself to be 
furious for the sake of a piece of gossip which has no founda- 
tion whatever. What is the story they tell ? ” 

“Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca's going away 
last week. Del Ferice proposed to call him before you, and 
Giovanni was angry.” 

“That is absurd,” said Corona. “Don Giovanni was not the 

least annoyed. He was with me afterwards ” 

“ Always Giovanni ! Always Giovanni ! Wherever you go, 
it is Giovanni ! ” cried the old man, in unreasonable petulance 
— unreasonable from his point of view, reasonable enough had 
he known the truth. But he struck unconsciously upon the 
key-note of all Corona’s troubles, and she turned pale to the 
lips. 

“You say it is not true,” he began again. “How do you 
know ? How can you tell what may have been said ? How 
can you guess it ? Giovanni Saracinesca is about you in society 
more than any one. He has quarrelled about you, and two 
men have lost their lives in consequence. He is in love with 
you, I tell you. Can you not see it ? You must be blind ! ” 
Corona leaned back in her chair, utterly overcome by the 
suddenness of the situation, unable to answer, her hands folded 
tightly together, her pale lips compressed. Angry at her silence, 
old Astrardente continued, his rage gradually getting the mas- 
tery of his sense, and his passion working itself up to the pitch 
of madness. 

“ Blind — yes — positively blind 1 ” he cried. “ Do you think 
that I am blind too ? Do you think I will overlook all this ? 
Do you not see that your reputation is injured — that people 
associate your name with his — that no woman can be mentioned 
in the same breath with Giovanni Saracinesca and hope to 
maintain a fair fame ? A fellow whose adventures are in every- 
body’s mouth, whose doings are notorious; who has but to look 

at a woman to destroy her; who is a duellist, a libertine ” 

“ That is not true,” interrupted Corona, unable to listen 
calmly to the abuse thus heaped upon the man she so dearly 
loved. “ You are mad ” 

“You defend him !” screamed Astrardente, leaning far 
forward in his chair and clenching his hands. “ You dare to 
support him — you acknowledge that you care for him ! Does 
he not pursue you everywhere, so that the town rings with it? 
You ought to long to be rid of him, to wish he were dead, 
rather than allow his name to be breathed with yours; and 
instead, you defend him to me— you say he is right, that you 
prefer his odious devotion to your good name, to my good 
name ! Oh, it is not to be believed ! If you loved him your- 
self you could not do worse ! ” 


158 


SARACINESCA. 


'‘If half you say were true said Corona, in terrible 

distress. 

“True?^^ cried Astrardente, who would not brook inter- 
ruption. “It is all true — and more also. It is true that he 
loves you, true that all the world says it, true — by all that is 
holy, from your face I would almost believe that you do love 
him ! Why do you not deny it ? Miserable woman ! he 
screamed, springing towards her and seizing her roughly by 
the arm, as she hid her face in her hands. “ Miserable woman ! 
you have betrayed me 

In the paroxysm of his rage the feeble old man became almost 
strong; his grip tightened upon his wife’s wrist, and he dragged 
her violently from her seat. 

“ Betrayed ! And by you ! ” he cried again, shaking with 
passion. “ You whom I have loved ! This is your gratitude, 
your sanctified devotion, your cunning pretence at patience ! 
All to hide your love for such a man as that ! You hypocrite, 
you ” 

By a sudden effort Corona shook off his grasp, and drew 
herself up to her full height in magnificent anger. 

“You shall hear me,” she said, in deep commanding tones. 
“ I have deserved much, but I have not deserved this.” 

“ Ha!” he hissed, standing back from her a step, “you can speak 
now — I have touched you I You have found words. It was time ! ” 

Corona was as white as death, and her black eyes shone like 
coals of fire. Her words came slowly, every accent clear and 
strong with concentrated passion. 

“ I have not betrayed you. I have spoken no word of love to 
any man alive, and you know that I speak the truth. If any one 
has said to me what should not be said, I have rebuked him to 
silence. You know, while you accuse me, that I have done my 
best to honour and love you; you know well that I would die 
by my own hand, your loyal and true wife, rather than let my 
lips utter one syllable of love for any other man.” 

Corona possessed a supreme power over her husband. She 
was so true a woman that the truth blazed visibly from her 
clear eyes; and what she said was nothing but the truth. She 
had doubted it herself for one dreadful moment; she knew it 
now beyond all doubting. In a moment the old man’s wrath 
broke and vanished before the strong assertion of her perfect 
innocence. He turned pale under his paint, and his limbs 
trembled. He made a step forward, and fell upon his knees 
before her, and tried to take her hands. 

“ Oh, Corona, forgive me,” he moaned — “ forgive me ! I so 
love you ! ” 

Suddenly his grasp relaxed from her hands, and with a groan 
he fell forward against her knees. 


SARACINESCA. 


159 


“ God knows I forgive yon ! ” cried Corona, the tears starting 
to her eyes in sudden pity. She bent down to support him; 
but as she moved, he fell prostrate upon his face before her. 
With a cry of terror she kneeled beside him; with her strong 
arms she turned his body and raised his head upon her knees. 
His face was ghastly white, save where the tinges of paint made 
a hideous mockery of colour upon his livid skin. His parted 
lips were faintly purple, and his hollow eyes stared wide open 
at his wife’s face, while the curled wig was' thrust far back 
upon his bald and wrinkled forehead. 

Corona supported his weight upon one knee, and took his 
nerveless hand in hers. An agony of terror seized her. 

‘^Onofrio!” she cried — she rarely called him by his name — 
“Onofrio! speak to me! My husband!” She clasped him 
wildly in her arms. “ 0 God, have mercy!” 

Onofrio d’Astrardente was dead. The poor old dandy, in his 
paint and his wig and his padding, had died at his wife’s feet, 
protesting his love for her to the last. The long averted blow 
had fallen. For years he had guarded himself against sudden 
emotions, for he was warned of the disease at his heart, and 
knew his danger; but his anger had killed him. He might 
have lived another hour while his rage lasted; but the revul- 
sion of feeling, the sudden repentance for the violence he had 
done his wife, had sent the blood back to its source too quickly, 
and with his last cry of love upon his lips he was dead. 

Corona had hardly ever seen death. She gently lowered the 
dead man’s weight till he lay at full length upon the floor. 
Then she started to her feet, and drew back against the fire- 
place, and gazed at the body of her husband. 

For fully five minutes she stood motionless, scarcely daring 
to draw breath, dazed and stupefied with horror, trying to 
realise what had happened. There he lay, her only friend, the 
companion of her life since she had known life; the man who 
in that very room, but two nights since, had spoken such kind 
words to her that her tears had flowed — the tears that would 
not flow now; the man who but a moment since was railing at 
her in a paroxysm of rage — whose anger had melted at her first 
word of defence, who had fallen at her feet to ask forgiveness, 
and to declare once more, for the last time, that he loved her! 
Her friend, her companion, her husband — had he heard her 
answer, that she forgave him freely ? He could not be dead — 
it was impossible. A moment ago he had been speaking to 
her. She went forward again and kneeled beside him. 

“ Onofrio,” she said very gently, you are not dead — you 
heard me ? ” 

She gazed down for a moment at the motionless features. 
Womanly thoughtful, she moved his head a little, and straight- 


160 


SAKACINESCA. 


ened the wig upon his poor forehead. Then, in an instant, she 
realised all, and with a wild cry of despair fell prostrate upon 
his body in an agony of passionate weeping. How long she 
lay, she knew not. A knock at the door did not reach her 
ears, nor another and another, at short intervals ; and then some 
one entered. It was the butler, who had come to announce the 
mid-day breakfast. He uttered an exclamation and started 
back, holding the handle of the door in his hand. 

Corona raised herself slowly to her knees, gazing down once 
more upon the dead man^s face. Then she lifted her stream- 
ing eyes and saw the servant. 

Your master is dead,'^ she said, solemnly. 

The man grew pale and trembled, hesitated, and then turned 
and fled down the hall without, after the manner of Italian 
servants, w^ho fear death, and even the sight of it, as they fear 
nothing else in the world. 

Corona rose to her feet and brushed the tears from her eyes. 
Then she turned and rang the bell. No one answered the sum- 
mons for some time. The news had spread all over the house 
in an instant, and everything was disorganised. At last a 
woman came and stood timidly at the door. She was a lower 
servant, a simple, strong creature from the mountains. Seeing 
the others terrifled and paralysed, it had struck her common- 
sense that her mistress was alone. Corona understood. 

Help me to carry him,"^ she said, quietly; and the peasant 
and the noble lady stooped and lifted the dead duke, and bore 
him to his chamber without a word, and laid him tenderly 
upon his bed. 

‘‘Send for the doctor,” said Corona; “I will watch beside 
him.” 

“ But, Excellency, are you not afraid ? ” asked the woman. 

Coronals lip curled a little. 

“ I am not afraid,” she answered. “ Send at once.” When 
the woman was gone, she sat down by the bedside and waited. 
Her tears were dry now, but she could not think. She waited 
motionless for an hour. Then the old physician entered softly, 
while a crowd of servants stood without, peering timidly 
through the open door. Corona crossed the room and quietly 
shut it. The physician stood by the bedside. 

“ It is simple enough, Signora Duchessa,” he said, gently. 
“ He is quite dead. It was only the day before yesterday that 
I warned him that the heart disease was worse. " Can you tell 
me how it happened ? ” 

“ Yes, exactly,” answered Corona, in a low voice. She was 
calm enough now. “ He came into my room two hours ago, 
and suddenly, in conversation, he became very angry. Then 
his anger subsided in a moment, and he fell at my feet,” 


SARACINESCA. 


161 


is just as I expected/^ answered tlie physician, quietly. 
“ They always die in this way. I entreat you to be calm — to 
consider that all men are mortal 

‘‘ I am calm now,'" interrupted Corona. I am alone. Will 
you see that what is necessary is done quickly ? I will leave 
you for a moment. There are people outside." 

As she opened the door the gaping crowd of servants slunk 
out of her way. With bent head she passed between them, 
and went out into the great reception-rooms, and sat down 
alone in her grief. 

It was genuine, of its kind. The poor man's soul might rest 
in peace, for she felt the real sorrow at his death which he had 
longed for, which he had perhaps scarcely dared to hope she 
would feel. Had it not been real in those first moments some 
thought w'ould have crossed her mind — some faint, repressed 
satisfaction at being free at last — free to marry Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca. But it was not so. She did not feel free— she felt 
alone, intensely alone. She longed for the familiar sound of 
his querulous voice — for the expression of his thousand little 
wants and interests; she remembered tenderly his 
little vanities. She thought of his wig, and she wept, 
it is that what is most ridiculous in life is most sorrowfully 
pathetic deatln^There was not one of the small things about 
him she did not recall with a pang of regret. It was all over 
now. His vanity was dead with him; his tender love for her 
was dead too. It was the only love she had known, until that 
other love — that dark and stirring passion — had been roused in 
her. But that did not trouble her now. Perhaps the uncon- 
scious sense that henceforth she was free to love whom she 
leased had suddenly made insignificant a feeling which had 
efore borne in her mind the terrible name of crime. The 
struggle for loyalty was no more, but the memory of what she 
had borne for the dead man made him dearer than before. 
The follies of his life had been many, but many of them had 
been for her, and there was the true ring in his last words. 
“To be young for your sake. Corona — for your sake!" The 
phrase echoed again and again in her remembrance, and her 
silent tears flowed afresh. The follies of his life had been 
many, but to her he had been true. The very violence of his 
last moments, the tenderness of his passionate appeal for for- 
giveness, spoke for the honesty of his heart, even though his 
heart had never been honest before. 

She needed never to think again of pleasing him, of helping 
him, of foregoing for his sake any intimacy with the world 
v^hich she might desire. Birt the thought brought no relief. 
He had become so much a part of her life that she could not 
conceive of living without him, and she would miss him at 


hornless 
■^So true 


163 


SARACINESCA. 


every turn. The new existence before her seemed dismal and 
empty beyond all expression. She wondered vaguely what she 
should do with her time. For one moment a strange longing 
came over her to return to the dear old convent, to lay aside 
for ever her coronet and state, and in a simple garb to do 
simple and goods things to the honour of God. 

She roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, 
dragging her steps slowly as though weighed down by a heavy 
burden. She entered the room where he had died, and a cold 
shudder passed over her. The afternoon sun was streaming 
through the window upon the writing-table where yet lay the 
unfinished invitation she had been writing, and upon the plants 
and the rich ornaments, upon the heavy carpet — the very spot 
where he had breathed his last word of love and died at her feet. 

Upon that spot Corona d’Astrardente knelt down reverently 
and prayed, — prayed that she might be forgiven for all her 
shortcomings to the dear dead man; that she might have 
strength to bear her sorrow and to honour his memory; above 
all, that his soul might rest in peace and find forgiveness, and 
that he might know that she had been truly innocent — she 
prayed for that too, for she had a dreadful doubt. But surely 
he knew all now: how she had striven to be loyal, and how 
truly — yes, how truly — she mourned his death. 

At last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, her 
hands clasped as they had been in her prayer. Glancing down, 
something glistened on the carpet. She stooped and picked it 
up. It was her husband’s seal-ring, engraven with the ancient 
arms of the Astrardente. She looked long at the jewel, and 
then put it upon her finger. 

God give me grace to honour his memory as he would have 
me honour it,” she said, solemnly. 

Truly, she had deserved the love the poor old dandy had so 
deeply felt for her. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

That night Giovanni insisted on going out. His wounds no 
longer pained him, he said; there was no danger whatever, and 
he w^as tired of staying at home. But he would dine with his 
father as usual. He loved his father’s company, and when the 
two omitted to quarrel over trifies they were very congenial. 
To tell the truth, the differences between them arose generally 
from the petulant quickness of the Prince; for in his son his 
own irascible character was joined with the melancholy gravity 
which Giovanni inherited from his mother, and in virtue of 
which, being taciturn, he was sometimes thought long-suffering. 

As usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient butler 


SARACINESCA. 


163 


Pasquale served them. As the man deposited Giovanni^s soup 
before him, he spoke. A certain liberty was always granted 
to Pasquale; Italian servants are members of the family, even 
in princely houses. Never assuming that confidence implies 
familiarity, they enjoy the one without ever approaching the 
latter. Nevertheless it was very rarely that Pasquale spoke to 
his masters when they were at table. 

“ I beg your Excellencies^ pardon ” he began, as he put 

down the soup-plate. 

‘‘ Well, Pasquale asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at 
the old servant from under his heavy brows. 

‘‘ Have your Excellencies heard the news ? ” 

What news ? No,^^ returned the Prince. 

The Duca d’Astrardente 

AVell, what of him 
Is dead.” 

^‘Dead!” repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to 
the vaulted roof of the dining-room. 

‘‘It is not true,” said old Saracinesca; “I saw him in the 
street this morning.” 

“Nevertheless, your Excellency,” replied Pasquale, “it is 
quite true. The gates of the palace were already draped with 
black before the Ave Maria this evening; and the porter, who 
is a nephew of mine, had cre])e upon his hat and arm. He told 
me that the Duca fell down dead of a stroke in the Signora 
Duchessa’s room at half -past twelve to-day.” 

“ Is that all you could learn ? ” asked the Prince. 

“ Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with 
grief,” returned the servant, gravely. 

“I should think so — her husband dead of an apoplexy I It 
is natural,” said the Prince, looking at Giovanni. The latter 
was silent, and tried to eat as though nothing had happened — 
inwardly endeavouring not to rejoice too madly at the terrible 
catastrophe. In his effort to co\ a’oI his features, the blood 
rushed to his forehead, and his hand trembled violently. His 
father saw it, but made no remark. 

“ Poor Astrardente ! ” he said. “ He was not so bad as people 
thought him.” 

“ No,” replied Giovanni, with a great effort; “ he was a very 
good man.” 

“ I should hardly say that,” returned his father, with a grim 
s-mile of amusement. “ I do not think that by the greatest 
stretch of indulgence he could be called good.” 

“ And why not?” asked the younger man, sharply snatching 
at any possible discussion in order to conceal his embarrass- 
ment. 

“ Why not, Indeed! Why, because he had a goodly share of 


164 


SARACINESCA. 


original sin, to which he added others of his own originating 
but having an equal claim to originality/^ 

“ I say 1 think he was a very good man,^^ repeated Giovanni, 
maintaining his point with an air of conviction. 

‘‘ If that is your conception of goodness, it is no wonder that 
you have not attained to sanctity,'’^ said the old man, with a 
sneer. 

“ It pleases you to be witty,'^ answered his son. Astrar- 
dente did not gamble; he had no vices of late. He was kind 
to his wife.'’^ 

No vices — no. He did not steal like a fraudulent bank- 
clerk, nor try to do murder like Del Ferice. He did not de- 
ceive his wife, nor starve her to death. He had therefore no 
vices. He was a good man.^’ 

Let us leave poor Del Ferice alone,” said Giovanni. 

“ I suppose you will pity him now,” replied the Prince, sar- 
castically. ‘‘ You will talk differently if he dies and you have 
to leave the country at a moment’s notice, like Spicca this 
morning.” 

“ I should he very sorry if Del Ferice died. I should never 
recover from it. I am not a professional duellist like Spicca. 
And yet Casalverde deserved his death. I can quite under- 
stand that Del Ferice might in the excitement of the moment 
have lunged at me after the halt was cried, but I cannot under- 
stand how Casalverde could be so infamous as not to cross his 
sword when he himself called. It looked very much like a 
preconcerted arrangement. Casalverde deserved to die, for the 
safety of society. I should think that Eome had had enough 
of duelling for a while.” 

Yes; but after all, Casalverde did not count for much. I 
am not sure I ever saw the fellow before in my life. And I 
suppose Del Ferice will recover. There was a story this morn- 
ing that he was dead; but I went and inquired myself, and 
found that he was better. People are much shocked at this 
second duel. AVell, it could not be helped. Poor old Astrar- 
dente ! So we shall never see his wig again at every ball and 
theatre and supper-party! There was a man who enjoyed his 
life to the very end 1 ” 

I should not call it enjoyment to be built up every day by 
one’s valet, like a card-house, merely to tumble to pieces again 
when the pins are taken out,” said Giovanni. 

‘‘You do not seem so enthusiastic in his defence as you were 
a few minutes ago,” said the Prince, with a smile. 

Giovanni was so much disturbed at the surprising news that 
he hardly knew what he said. He made a desperate attempt 
to be sensible. 

“ It appears to me that moral goodness and personal appear- 


SARACINESCA. 


165 


ance are two things,” he said, oracularly. The Prince burst 
into a loud laugh. 

“ Most people would say that ! Eat your dinner, Giovanni, 
and do not talk such arrant nonsense.” 

“ Why is it nonsense ? Because you do not agree with me ? ” 

“Because you are too much excited to talk sensibly,” said his 
father. “ Do you think I cannot see it ? ” 

Giovanni was silent for a time. He was angry at his father 
for detecting the cause of his vagueness, but he supposed there 
was no help for it. At last Pasquale left the room. Old Sara- 
cinesca gave a sigh of relief. 

“And now, Giovannino,” he said familiarly, “what have you 
got to say for yourself ? ” 

“ I ? ” asked his son, in some surprise. 

“ You ! What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I will stay at home,” said Giovanni, shortly. 

“That is not the question. You are wise to stay at home, 
because you ought to get yourself healed of that scratch. Gio- 
vanni, the Astrardente is now a widow.” 

“ Seeing that her husband is dead — of course. There is vast 
ingenuity in your deduction,” returned the younger man, eye- 
ing his father suspiciously. 

“ Do not be an idiot, Giovannino. I mean, that as she is a 
widow, I have no objection to your marrying her.” 

“ Good God, sir! ” cried Giovanni, “ what do you mean ? ” 

“What I say. She is the most beautiful woman in Eome. 
She is one of the best women I know. She will have a suffi- 
cient jointure. Marry her. You will never be happy with a 
silly little girl just out of a convent. You are not that sort of 
man. The Astrardente is not three-and-twenty, but she has 
had five years of the world, and she has stood the test well. I 
shall be proud to call her my daughter.” 

In his excitement Giovanni sprang from his seat, and rushing 
to his father^s side, threw his arms round his neck and em- 
braced him. He had never done such a thing in his life. 
Then he remained standing, and grew suddenly thoughtful. 

“ It is heartless of us to talk in this way,” he said. “ The 
poor man is not buried yet.” 

“My dear boy,” said the old Prince, “Astrardente is dead. 
He hated me, and was beginning to hate you, I fancy. We 
were neither of us his friends, at any rate. We do not rejoice 
at his death; we merely regard it in the light of an event which 
modifies our immediate future. He is dead, and his wife is 
free. So long as he was alive, the fact of your loving her was 
exceedingly unfortunate: it was injuring you and doing a 
wrong to her. How, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune 
that can happen to you both is that you should marry each other.” 


166 


SARACINESCA. 


** That is true/^ returned Giovanni. In the suddenness of 
the news, it had not struck him that his father would ever look 
favourably upon the match, although the immediate possibility 
of the marriage had burst upon him as a great light suddenly 
rising in a thick darkness. But his nature, as strong as his 
father’s, was a little more delicate, a shade less rough; and even 
in the midst of his great joy, it struck him as heartless to be 
discussing the chances of marrying a woman whose husband 
was not yet buried. No such scruple disturbed the geniality of 
the old Prince. He was an honest and straightforward man — 
a man easily possessed by a single idea — and he was capable of 
profound affections. He had loved his Spanish wife strongly 
in his own fashion, and she had loved him; but there was no 
one left to him now but his son, whom he delighted in, and he 
regarded the rest of the world merely as pawns to be moved into 
position for the honour and glory of the Saracinesca. He 
thought no more of a man’s life than of the end of a cigar, 
smoked out and fit to be thrown away. Astrardente had been 
nothing to him but an obstacle. It had not struck him that he 
could ever be removed ; but since it had pleased Providence to take 
him out of the way, there was no earthly reason for mourning 
his death. All men must die — it was better that death should 
come to those who stood in the way of their fellow-creatures. 

“ I am not at all sure that she will consent,” said Giovanni, 
beginning to walk up and down the room. 

“ Bah! ” ejaculated his father. You are the best match in 
Italy. Why should any woman refuse you ?” 

“ I am not so sure. She is not like other women. Let us 
not talk of it now. It will not be possible to do anything for 
a year, I suppose. A year is a long time. Meanwhile I will 
go to that poor man’s funeral.” 

Of course. So will I.” 

And they both went, and found themselves in a vast crowd 
of acquiaintances. No one had believed that Astrardente could 
ever die, that the day would ever come when society should 
know his place no more; and with one consent everybody sent 
their carriages to the funeral, and went themselves a day or 
two later to the great requiem Mass in the parish church. 
There was nothing to be seen but the great black catafalque, 
with Corona’s household of servants in deep mourning liveries 
kneeling behind it. Relations she had none, and the dead man 
was the last of his race — she was utterly alone. 

She need not have made it so terribly impressive,” said 
Madame Mayer to Valdarno when the Mass was over. Madame 
Mayer paused beside the holy-water basin, and dipping one 
gloved finger, she presented it to Valdarno wdth an engaging 
smile. Both crossed themselves. 


SARACINESCA. 


167 


She need not have got it up so terribly impressively, after 
all/^ she repeated. 

“ I daresay she will miss him at first,” returned Valdarno, 
who was a kind-hearted fellow enough, and was very far from 
realising how much he had contributed to the sudden death of 
the old dandy. “ She is a strange woman. I believe she had 
grown fond of him.” 

Oh, I know all that,” said Donna Tullia, as they left the 
church. 

“ Yes,” answered her companion, with a significant smile, I 
presume you do.” Donna Tullia laughed harshly as she got 
into her carriage. 

“You are detestable, Valdarno — you always misunderstand 
me. Are you going to the ball to-night ? ” 

“ Of course. May I have the pleasure of the cotillon ? ” 

“ If you are very good — if you will go and ask the news of 
Del Ferice.” 

“ I sent this morning. He is quite out of danger, they be- 
lieve.” 

“Is he ? Oh, I am very glad — I felt so very badly, you know. 
Ah, Don Giovanni, are you recovered ?” she asked coldly, as 
Saracinesca approached the other side of the carriage. Val- 
darno retired to a distance, and pretended to be buttoning his 
greatcoat; he wanted to see v/hat would happen. 

“Thank you, yes; I was not much hurt. This is the first 
time I have been out, and I am glad to find an opportunity of 
speaking to you. Let me say again how profoundly I regret 
my forgetfulness at the ball the other night ” 

Donna Tullia was a clever woman, and though she had been 
very angry at the time, she was in love with Giovanni. She 
therefore looked at him suddenly with a gentle smile, and just 
for one moment her fingers touched his hand as it rested upon 
the side of the carriage. 

“ Do you think it was kind ? ” she asked, in a low voice. 

“It was abominable. I shall never forgive myself,” an- 
swered Giovanni. 

“ I will forgive you,” answered Donna Tullia, softly. She 
really loved him. It was the best thing in her nature, but it 
was more than balanced by the jealousy she had conceived for 
the Duchessa d^Astrardente. 

“ Was it on that account that you quarrelled with poor Del 
Ferice ? ” she asked, after a moments pause. “ I have feared 
it ” 

“Certainly not,” answered Giovanni, quickly. “Pray set 
your mind at rest. Del Ferice or any other man would have 
been quite justified in calling me out for it — but it was not for 
that. It was not on account of you.” 


168 


SARACINESCA. 


It would have been hard to say whether Donna Tullia’s face 
expressed more clearly her surprise or her disappointment at 
the intelligence. Perhaps she had both really believed herself 
the cause of the duel, and had been flattered at the thought 
that men would fight for her. 

“ Oh, I am very glad-^it is a great relief,'^ she said, rather 
coldly. Are you going to the ball to-night ? 

‘‘No; I cannot dance. My right arm is bound up in a sling, 
as you see.’^ 

“ I am sorry you are not coming. Good-bye, then.’^ 

“Good-bye; I am very grateful for your forgiveness.” 
Giovanni bowed low, and Donna Tullia’s brilliant equipage 
dashed away. 

Giovanni was well satisfied at having made his peace so easily, 
but he nevertheless apprehended danger from Donna Tnllia. 

The next thing which interested Roman society was Astrar- 
dente’s will, but no one was much surprised when the terms of 
it were known. As there were no relations, everything was 
left to his wife. The palace in Rome, the town and castle in 
the Sabines, the broad lands in the low hill-country towards 
Ceprano, and what surprised even the family lawyer, a goodly 
sum in solid English securities, — a splendid fortune in all, 
according to Roman ideas. Astrardente abhorred the name of 
money in his conversation — it had been one of his affectations; 
but he had an excellent understanding of business, and was 
exceedingly methodical in the management of his affairs. The 
inheritance, the lawyer thought, might be estimated at three 
millions of scudi. 

“ Is all this wealth mine, then ?” asked Corona, when the 
solicitor had explained the situation. 

“All, Signora Duchessa. You are enormously rich.” 

Enormously rich ! And alone in the world. Corona asked 
herself if she was the same woman, the same Corona del Car- 
mine who five years before had suffered in the old convent the 
humiliation of having no pocket-money, whose wedding-gown 
had been provided from the proceeds of a little sale of the last 
relics of her father’s once splendid collection of old china and 
pictures. She had never thought of money since she had been 
married; her husband was generous, but methodical; she never 
bought anything without consulting him, and the bills all went 
through his hands. Now and then she had rather timidly 
asked for a small sum for some charity; she had lacked nothing 
that money could buy, but she never remembered to have had 
more than a hundred francs in her purse. Astrardente had 
once offered to give her an allowance, and had seemed pleased 
that she refused it. He liked to manage things himself, being 
a man of detail. 


SAKACINESCA. 


169 


And now she was enormously rich, and alone. It was a 
strange sensation. She felt it to be so new that she innocently 
said so to the lawyer. 

“ What shall I do with it all ? 

“ Signora Duchessa,'' returned the old man, '' with regard to 
money the question is, not what to do with it, but how to do 
without it. You are very young. Signora Duchessa.'' 

“I shall be twenty-three in August,"^ said Corona, simply. 

Precisely. I would beg to be allowed to observe that by 
the terms of the will, and by the laws of this country, you are 
not the dowager-duchess, but you are in your own right and 
person the sole and only feudal mistress and holder of the 
title.^' 

“ Am I ? ” 

^'Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached. It may 
be — I beg pardon for being so bold as to suggest it — it may 
be that in years to come, when time has soothed your sorrow 
you may wish, you may consent, to renew the marriage tie.’^ 

“ I doubt it — but the thing is possible,^^ said Corona, quietly. 

In that case, and should you prefer to contract a marriage 
of inclination, you will have no difficulty in conferring your title 
upon your husband, with any reservations you please. Your 
children will then inherit from you, and become in their turn 
Dukes of Astrardente. This I conceive to have been the pur- 
pose and spirit of the late Duke^s will. The estate, magnificent 
as it is, will not be too large for the foundation of a new race. 
If you desire any distinctive title, you can call yourself Duchessa 
del Carmine d^Astrardente — it would sound very well,'’^ re- 
marked the lawyer, contemplating the beautiful woman before 
him.^^ 

“ It is of little importance what I call myself,'’^ said Corona. 
At present I shall certainly make no change. It is very un- 
likely that I shall ever marry.^^ 

‘‘ I trust. Signora Duchessa, that in any case you will always 
command my most humble services.^'’ 

With this protestation of fidelity the lawyer left the Palazzo 
Astrardente, and Corona remained in her boudoir in medita- 
tion of what it would be like to be the feudal mistress of a 
great title and estate. She was very sad, but she was growing 
used to her solitude. Her liberty was strange to her, but little 
by little she was beginning to enjoy it. At first she had missed 
the constant care of the poor man who for five years had been 
her companion; she had missed his presence and the burden 
of thinking for him at every turn of the day. But it was not 
for long. Her memory of him was kind and tender, and for 
months after his death the occasional sight of some object asso- 
ciated with him brought the tears to her eye?, She often 


170 


SARACINESCA. 


wished he could walk into the room in his old way, and begin 
talking of the thousand and one bits of town gossip that inte- 
rested him. But the first feeling of desolation soon passed, for 
he had not been more than a companion; she could analyse 
i every memory she had of him to its source and reason. There 
! was not in her that passionate unformulated yearning for him 
I that comes upon a loving heart when its fellow is taken away, 
f and which alone is a proof that love has been real and true. 

• She soon grew accustomed to his absence. 

To marry again — every one would say she would be right — 
to marry and to be the mother of children, of brave, sons and 
noble girls, — ah yes ! that was a new thought, a wonderful 
thought, one of many that were wonderful. 

Then, again, her strong nature suddenly rose in a new sense 
of strength, and she paced the room slowly with a strange ex- 
pression of sternness upon her beautiful features. 

am a power in the world,^^ she said to herself, almost 
starting at the truth of the thought, and yet taking delight in 
it. I am what men call rich and powerful; I have money, 
estates, castles, and palaces; I am young, I am strong. What 
shall I do with it all ? 

As she walked, she dreamed of raising some great institution 
of charity ; she knew not for what precise object, but there 
was room enough for charity in Rome. The great Torlonia 
had built churches, and hospitals, and asylums. She would 
do likewise; she would make for herself an interest in doing 
good, a satisfaction in the exercise of her power to combat 
evil. It would be magnificent to feel that she had done it her- 
self, alone and unaided; that she had built the walls from the 
foundation and the corner-stone to the eaves ; that she had en- 
tered herself into the study of each detail, and herself peopled 
the great institution with such as needed most help in the 
world — with little children, perhaps. She would visit them 
every day, and herself provide for their wants and care for 
their sufferings. She would give the place her husband’s name, 
and the good she would accomplish with his earthly portion 
might perhaps profit his soul. She would go to Padre Filippo 
and ask his advice. He would know what was best to be done, 
for he knew more of the misery in Rome than any one, and 
had a greater mind to relieve it. She had seen him since her 
husband’s death, but she had not yet conceived this scheme. 

And Giovanni — she thought of him too; but the habit of 
putting him out of her heart was strong. She dimly fancied 
that in the far future a day might come when she would be 
justified in thinking of him if she so pleased; but for the 
present, her loyalty to her dead husband seemed more than 
ever a sacred duty. She would not permit herself to think of 


SaRACINESCA. 


171 


Giovanni, even though, from a general point of view, she might 
contemplate the possibility of a second marriage. She would 
go to Padre Filippo and talk over everything with him; he 
would advise her well. 

Then a wild longing seized her to leave Rome for a while, to 
breathe the air of the country, to get away from the scene of 
all her troubles, of all the terrible emotions that had swept 
over her life in the last three weeks, to be alone in the hills or 
by the sea. It seemed dreadful to be tied to her great house 
in the city, in her mourning, shut off suddenly from the world, 
and bound down by the chain of conventionality to a fixed 
method of existence. She would give anything to go away. 
Why not ? She suddenly realised what was so hard to under- 
stand, that she was free to go where she pleased — if only, by 
accident, she could chance to meet Giovanni Saracinesca before 
she left. No — the thought was unworthy. She would leave 
town at once — surely she could have nothing to say to Gio- 
vanni — she would leave to-morrow morning. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Corona found it impossible to leave town so soon as she 
had wished. She had indeed sent out great cart-loads of fur- 
niture, servants, horses, and all the paraphernalia of an estab- 
lishment in the country, and she believed herself ready to move 
at once, when she received an exceedingly courteous note from 
Cardinal Antonelli requesting the honour of being received by 
her the next day at twelve o’clock. It was impossible to re- 
fuse, and to her great annoyance she was obliged to postpone 
her departure another twenty-four hours. She guessed that 
the great man was the bearer of some message from the Holy 
Father himself; and in her present frame of mind, such words 
of comfort could not fail to be acceptable from one whom she 
reverenced and loved, as all who knew Pius IX. did sincerely 
revere and love him. She did not like the Cardinal, it is true; 
but she did not confound the ambassador with him who sent 
the embassy. The Cardinal was a most courteous and accom- 
plished man of the world, and Corona could not easily have 
explained the aversion she felt for him. It is very likely that 
if she could have understood the part he was sustaining in the 
great European struggle of those days, she would have accorded 
him at least the admiration he deserved as a statesman. He 
had his faults, and they were faults little becoming a cardinal 
of the Holy Roman Church. But few are willing to consider 
that, though a cardinal, he was not a priest — that he was prac- 
tically a layman who, by his own unaided genius, had attained 
to great power, and that those faults which have been charged 


172 


SARACII^ESCA. 


against liim with such virulence would have passed, nay, actu- 
ally pass, unnoticed and uncensured in many a great statesman 
of those days and of these. He was a brave man, who fought 
a desperate and hopeless fight to his last breath, and who 
fought almost alone — a man most bitterly hated by many, at 
whose death many rejoiced loudly and few mourned; and to 
the shame of many be it said, that his most obstinate adversa- 
ries, those who unsparingly heaped abuse upon him during his 
lifetime, and most unseemingly exulted over his end, were the 
very men among whom he should have found the most willing 
supporters and the firmest friends. But in 1865 he was feared, 
and those who reckoned without him in the game of politics 
reckoned badly. 

Corona was a woman, and very young. She had not the 
knowledge or the experience to understand his value, and she 
had taken a personal dislike to him when she first appeared in 
society. He was too smooth for her; she thought him false. 
She preferred a rougher type. Her husband, on the other 
hand, had a boundless admiration for the cardinal-statesman; 
and perhaps the way in which Astrardente constantly tried to 
impress his wife with a sense of the great man^s virtues, indi- 
rectly contributed to increase her aversion. Nevertheless, 
when he sent word that he desired to be received by her, she 
did not hesitate a moment, but expressed her willingness at 
once. Punctually as the gun of Sant Angelo roared out the 
news that the sun was on the meridian. Cardinal Antonelli 
entered Coronals house. She received him in the great draw- 
ing-room. There was an air of solemnity about the meeting. 
The room itself, divested of a thousand trifles which had 
already been sent into the country, looked desolate and formal; 
the heavy curtains admitted but little light; there was no fire 
on the hearth; Corona stood all in black — a very incarnation 
of mourning — as her visitor trod softly across the dark carpet 
towards her. 

The CardinaTs expressive face was softened by a look of 
gentle sympathy, as he came forward and took her hand in 
both of his, and gazed for a moment into her beautiful eyes. 

“ I am an ambassador, Huchessa,^^ he said softly. “ I come 
to tell you how deeply our Holy Father sympathises in your 
great sorrow.” 

Corona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the Car- 
dinal to be seated. 

“ I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness my 
most sincere gratitude for this expression of his paternal kind- 
ness to one so unhappy.” 

“ Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duchessa,” 
answered the Cardinal, seating himself by her side in one of 


SARACIN-ESCA. 


173 


the ^reat arm-chairs which had been placed together in the 
middle of the room. His Holiness has promised to remember 
yon in his august prayers; and I also, for my own part, entreat 
you to believe that my poor sympathy is wholly with you in 
your distress.” 

Your Eminence is most kind,” replied Corona, gravely. 

It seemed as though there were little more to be said in such 
a case. There was no friendship between the two, no bond of 
union or fellowship: it was simply a formal visit of condolence, 
entailed as a necessity by Corona's high position. The Pope 
had sent her a gift at her wedding; he sent her a message of 
sympathy at her husband's death. Half-a-dozen phrases would 
be exchanged, and the Cardinal would take his leave, accom- 
panied by a file of the Duchessa's lackeys — and so it would all 
be over. But the Cardinal was a statesman, a diplomatist, and 
one of the best talkers in Europe; moreover, he never allowed 
an opportunity of pursuing his ends to pass unimproved. 

‘‘Ah, Duchessa!” he said, folding his hands upon his knee 
and looking down, “ there is but one Consoler in sorrow such as 
yours. It is vain for us mortals to talk of any such thing as 
alleviating real mental suffering. There are consolations — 
many of them — for some people, but they are not for you. To 
many the accidents of wealth, of youth, of beauty, seem to open 
the perspective of a brilliant future at the very moment when 
all the present api3ears to be shrouded in darkness; but if you 
will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, I do 
not believe that any of these things which you possess in such 
plentiful abundance will lessen the measure of your grief. It 
is not right that they should, I suppose. It is not fitting that 
noble minds should even possess the faculty of forgetting real 
suffering in the unreal trifles of a great worldly possession, 
which so easily restore the weak to courage, and flatter the 
vulgar into the forgetfulness of honourable sorrow. I am no 
moraliser, no pedantic philosopher. The stoic may have 
shrugged his heavy shoulders in sullen indifference to fate; 
the epicurean may have found such bodily ease in his excessive 
refinement of moderate enjoyment as to overlook the deepest 
afflictions in anticipating the animal pleasure of the next meal. 
I cannot conceive of such men as those philosophising diners; 
nor can I imagine by what arguments the wisest of mankind 
could induce a fellow-creature in distress to forget his suffer- 
ings. Sorrow is sorrow still to all finely organised natures. 
T& capacity for feeling sorrow is one of the highest tests of 
nobility — a nobility of nature not found always in those of high 
blood and birth, but existing in the people, wherever the people 
are good.” 

The Cardinal's voice became even more gentle as he spoke. 


174 


SARACINESCA. 


He was himself of very humble origin, and spoke feelingly. 
Corona listened, though she only heard half of what he said; 
but his soft tone soothed her almost unconsciously. 

“ There is little consolation for me — I am quite alone,'^ she 
said. 

“ You are not of those who find relief in worldly greatness,^^ 
continued the Cardinal. But I have seen women, young, 
rich, and beautiful, wear their mourning with wonderful com- 
posure. Youth is so much, wealth is so much more, beauty is 
such a power in the world — all three together are resistless. 
Many a young widow is not ashamed to think of marriage be- 
fore her husband has been dead a month. Indeed they do not 
always make bad wives. A woman who has been married 
young and is early deprived of her husband, has great experi- 
ence, great knowledge of the world. Many feel that they have 
no right to waste the goods given them in a life of solitary 
mourning. Wealth is given to be used, and perhaps many a 
rich young widow thinks she can use it more wisely in the com- 
pany of a husband young as herself. It may be; I cannot tell. 
These are days when power of any sort should be used, and 
perhaps no one should even for a moment think of withdraw- 
ing from the scene where such great battles are being fought. 
But one may choose wisely a way of using power, or one may 
choose unwisely. There is much to be done.'’^ 

“ How ? asked Corona, catching at his expression of an idea 
which pursued her. “ Here am I, rich, alone, idle — above all, 
very unhappy. What can I do ? I wish I knew, for I would 
try and do it.^^ 

Ah ! I was not speaking ot you, Duchessa,” answered the 
statesman. You are too noble a woman to be easily consoled. 
And yet, though you may not find relief from your great sorrow, 
there are many things within your reach which you might do, 
and feel that in your mourning you have done honour to your 
departed husband as well as to yourself. You have great 
estates — you can improve them, and especially you can improve 
the condition of your peasants, and strengthen their loyalty to 
you and to the State. You can find many a village on your 
lands where a school might be established, an asylum built, a 
road opened — anything which shall give employment to the 
poor, and which, when finished, shall benefit their condition. 
Especially about Astrardente they are very poor; I know the 
country well. In six months you might change many things; 
and then you might return to Eome next winter. If it pleases 
you, you can do anything with society. You can make your 
house a centre for a new party — the oldest of all parties it is, 
but it would now be thought new here. We have no centre. 
There is no salon in the good old sense of the word — no house 


SARACINESCA. 


175 


where all that is intelligent, all that is powerful, all that is 
influential, is irresistibly drawn. To make a centre of that 
kind would be a worthy object, it seems to me. You would 
surround yourself with men of genius; you would bring those 
together who cannot meet elsewhere ; you would give a vigor- 
ous tone to a society which is fast falling to decay from inani- 
tion; you could become a power, a real power, not only in 
Kome, but in Europe; you could make your house famous as 
the point from which, in Rome, all that is good and great 
should radiate to the very ends of the earth. You could do all 
this in your young widowhood, and you would not dishonour 
the memory of him you loved so dearly.^^ 

Corona looked earnestly at the Cardinal as he enlarged upon 
the possibilities of her life. What he said seemed true and good. 
It opened to her a larger field than she had dreamed of half an 
hour ago. Especially the plan of working for the improvement 
of her estates and people attracted her. She wanted to do some- 
thing at once — something good, and something worth doing. 

“ I believe you are righV’ she said. “ I shall die if I am idle.’^ 
I know I am right,^^ returned the Cardinal, in a tone of 
conviction. “ Not that I propose all this as an unalterable plan 
for you. I would not have you think I mean to lay down any 
system, or even to advise you at all. I was merely thinking 
aloud. I am too happy if my thoughts please you — if anything 
I say can even for a moment relieve your mind from the press- 
ure of this sudden grief. It is not consolation I offer you. I 
am not a priest, but a man of action ; and it is action I propose 
to you, not as an anodyne for sorrow, but simply because it is 
right that in these days we should all strive with a good will. 
Your peasants are many of them in an evil case: you can save 
them and make them happy, even though you find no happi- 
ness for yourself. Our social world here is falling to pieces, 
going astray after strange gods, and especially after Madame 
Mayer and her lares and penates, young Valdarno and Del 
Ferice: it is in your power to create a new life here, or at least 
to contribute greatly towards re-establishing the social balance. 
I say, do this thing, if you will, for it is a good thing to do. 
At all events, while you are building roads — and perhaps 
schools — at Astrardente, you can think over the course you 
will afterwards pursue. And now, my dear Duchessa, I have 
detained you far too lon^. Forgive me if I have wearied you, 
for I have great things at heart, and must sometimes speak of 
them though I speak feebly. Count on me always for any 
assistance you may require. Bear with me if I weary you, for 
I was a good friend of him we both mourn.” 

"'Thank you — you have given me good thoughts,” said 
Corona, simply. 


176 


SARACINESCA. 


So the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and once 
more Corona was left alone. It was a strange thing that, 
while he disclaimed all power to comfort her, and denied that 
consolation was possible in her case, she had nevertheless lis- 
tened to him with interest, and now found herself thinking 
seriously of what he had said. He seemed to have put her 
thoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense 
of power she had already begun to feel. For the first time in 
her life she felt something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and 
she lingered for some minutes alone in the great reception- 
room, wondering whether she could accomplish any of the 
things he had proposed to her. At all events, there was nothing 
now to hinder her departure; and she thought with something 
like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the moun- 
tains, the simple faces of the people about her place, and of the 
quiet life she intended to lead there during the next six months. 

But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through the 
narrow streets in his great coach. Leaning far back in his 
cushioned seat, he could just catch a glimpse of the people as 
he passed, and his quick eyes recognised many, both high and 
low. But he did not care to show himself, for he felt himself 
disliked, and deep in his finely organised nature there lay a 
sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular hatred. It 
hurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to 
return the forced bow of the rich man who feared him. He 
often longed to be able to explain many things to them both, to 
the rich and to the poor; and then, knowing how impossible it 
was that he should be understood by either, he sighed somewhat 
bitterly, and hid himself still deeper in his carriage. Few men 
in the midst of the world have stood so wholly alone as Cardinal 
Antonelli. 

To-day, however, he had an appointment which he anticipated 
with a sort of interest quite new to him. Anastase Gouache 
was coming to begin his portrait, and Anastase was an object 
of curiosity to him. It would have surprised the young French- 
man had he guessed how carefully he was watched, for he was 
a modest fellow, and did not think himself of very much im- 
portance. He allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to 
his studio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their shallow 
talk, and joined occasionally in the conversation, letting them 
believe that he sympathised with them, simply because his own 
ideas were unsettled. It was a good thing for him to paint a 
portrait of Donna Tullia, for it made him the fashion, and he 
had small scruple in agreeing with her views so long as he had 
no fixed convictions of his own. She and her set regarded him 
as a harmless boy, and looked upon his little studio as a con- 
venience, in payment whereof they pushed him into society. 


SARACIITESCA. 


177 


and spread abroad the rumour that he was the rising artist of 
the day. But the great Cardinal had seen him more than once, 
and had conceived a liking for his delicate intellectual face 
and unobtrusive manner. He had watched him and caused 
him to be watched, and his interest had increased, and finally 
he had taken a fancy to have a portrait of himself painted by 
the young fellow. This was the day appointed for the first 
sitting; and when the Cardinal reached his lodgings, high up in 
the Vatican pile, he found Anastase Gouache waiting for him 
in the small ante-chamber. 

The prime minister was not luxuriously lodged. Four rooms 
sufficed him — to wit, the said ante-chamber, bare and uncarpeted, 
and furnished with three painted wooden box benches; a com- 
fortable study lined throughout with shelves and lockers, fur- 
nished with half-a-dozen large chairs and a single writing-table, 
whereon stood a crucifix and an inkstand; beyond this a bed- 
room and a small dining-room : that was all. The drawers of 
the lockers and bookcases contained a correspondence which 
would have astonished Europe, and a collection of gems and 
precious stones unrivalled in the world; but there was nothing 
in the shape of ornament visible to the eye, unless one were to 
class under that head a fairly good bust of Pius IX., which stood 
upon a plain marble pedestal in one corner. Gouache followed 
the great man into this study. He was surprised by the simpli- 
city of the apartment; but he felt in sympathy with it, and with 
the Cardinal himself; and with the intuitive knowledge of a 
true artist, he foresaw that he was to paint a successful portrait. 

The Cardinal busied himself with some papers while the 
painter silently made his preparations. 

If your Eminence is ready ? ” suggested Gouache. 

At your service, my friend,^^ replied the Cardinal, blandly. 

How shall I sit ? The portrait must be taken in full face, I 
think.” 

“ By all means. Here, I think — so; the light is very good at 
this hour, but a little later we shall have the sun. If your 
Eminence will look at me — a little more to the left — I think 
that will do. I will draw it in in charcoal, and your Eminence 
can judge.” 

“ Precisely,” returned the Cardinal. Yon will paint the 
devil even blacker than he is.” 

The devil ?” repeated Gouache, raising his eyebrows with a 

slight smile. I was not aware ” 

And yet you have been in Rome four years ! ” 

I am very careful,” returned Gouache. “ I never by any 
chance hear any evil of those whom I am to paint.” 

You have very well-bred ears. Monsieur Gouache. I fear 
that if I had attended some of the meetings in your studio while 


178 


SARACINESCA. 


Donna Tullia was having her portrait painted, I should have 
heard strange things. Have they all escaped you ? 

Gouache was silent for a moment. It did not surprise him 
to learn that the omniscient Cardinal was fully acquainted with 
the doings in his studio, but he looked curiously at the great 
man before he answered. The Cardinahs small gleaming eyes 
met his with the fearlessness of superiority. 

I remember nothing but good of your Eminence,” the 
painter replied at last, with a laugh; and applying himself to 
his work, he began to draw in the outline of the OardinaFs head. 
The words he had just heard, implying as they did a thorough 
knowledge of the minutest details of social life, would have 
terrified Madame Mayer, and would perhaps have driven Del 
Eerice out of the Papal States in fear of his life. Even the 
good-natured and foolish Valdarno might reasonably have been 
startled; but Aiiastase was made of different stuff. His grand- 
father had helped to storm the Bastille, his father had been 
among the men of 1848; there was revolutionary blood in his 
veins, and he distinguished between real and imaginary con- 
spiracy with the unerring certainty of instinct, as the blood- 
hound knows the track of man from the slot of meaner game. 
He laughed at Donna Tullia, he distrusted Del Eerice, and to 
some extent he understood the Cardinal. And the statesman 
understood him, too, and was interested by him. 

You may as well forget their chatter. It does me no harm, 
and it amuses them. It does not seem to surprise you that I 
should know all about it, however. You have good nerves. 
Monsieur Gouache.” 

‘"Of course your Eminence can send me out of Rome to- 
morrow, if you please,” answered Gouache, with perfect uncon- 
cern. “ But the portrait will not be finished so soon.” 

“ No — that would be a pity. You shall stay. But the others 
— what would you advise me to do with them ? ” asked the Car- 
dinal, his bright eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“ If by the others your Eminence means my friends,” replied 
Gouache, quietly, “ I can assure you that none of them will ever 
cause you the slightest inconvenience.” 

“ I believe you are right — their ability to annoy me is con- 
siderably inferior to their inclination. Is it not so ? ” 

“If your Eminence will allow me,” said Gouache, rising 
suddenly and laying down his charcoal pencil, “ I will pin this 
curtain across the window. The sun is beginning to come in.” 

He had no intention of answering any questions. If the 
Cardinal knew of the meetings in the Via San Basilio, that was 
not Gouache’s fault; Gouache would certainly not give any 
further information. The statesman had expected as much, 
and was not at all surprised at the young man’s silence. 


SARACINESCA. 


179 


One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his match, 
at all events, he remarked, presently. I am sorry it should 
have come about in that way.^^ 

Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel.” 

“ I knew nothing about it,” answered the Cardinal, glancing 
keenly at Anastase. 

Nor I,” said the artist, simply. 

^^You see my information is not always so good as people 
imagine, my friend.” 

‘‘ It is a pity,” remarked Gouache. It would have been 
better had poor Del Ferice been killed outright. The matter 
would have terminated there.” 

Whereas ” 

Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion for re- 
venge.” 

‘‘ You speak as though you were a friend of Don Giovanni^^ 
said the Cardinal. 

No; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I admire 
him, he has such a fine head. I should be sorry if anything 
happened to him.” 

Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him ? ” 

Oh no ! He might annoy him a great deal.” 

“I think not,” answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. “Del 
Ferice was afraid that Don Giovanni would marry Donna 
Tullia and spoil his own projects. But Giovanni will not think 
of that again.” 

“No; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa 
dh^strardente.” 

“ Of course,” replied the Cardinal. For some minutes there 
was silence. Gouache, while busy with his pencil, was wonder- 
ing at the interest the great man took in such details of the 
Roman social life. The Cardinal was thinking of Corona, 
whom he had seen but half an hour ago, and was revolving in 
his mind the advantages that might be got by allying her to 
Giovanni. He had in view for her a certain Serene Highness 
whom he wished to conciliate, and whose circumstances were 
not so splendid as to make Corona’s fortune seem insignificant 
to him. But, on the other hand, the Cardinal had no Serene 
Highness ready for Giovanni, and feared lest he should after 
all marry Donna Tullia, and get into the opposite camp. ^ 

“ You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe,” said the 
Cardinal at last. 

“ Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence.” 

“ How can you bear to live in exile so long ? You have not 
been to your home these four years, I think.” 

“ I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will go to 
Paris some day. It will always be a pleasant recollection to 


180 


SARACIi^ESCA. 


have seen Eome in these days. My friends write me that Paris 
is gay, but not pleasant.^^ 

You think there will soon be nothing of this time left but 
the recollection of it suggested the Cardinal. 

I do not know what to think. The times seem unsettled, 
and so are my ideas. I was told that your Eminence would 
help me to decide what to believe.” Gouache smiled pleasantly, 
and looked up. 

“ And who told you that ? ” 

‘‘Don Giovanni Saracinesca.” 

“ But I must have some clue to what your ideas are,” said the 
Cardinal. “ When did Don Giovanni say that ? ” 

“At Prince Frangipani’s. He had been talking with your 
Eminence — perhaps he had come to some conclusion in conse- 
quence,” suggested Gouache. 

“ Perhaps so,” answered the great man, with a look of con- 
siderable satisfaction. “At all events I am flattered by the 
opinion he gave you of me. Perhaps I may help you to decide. 
What are your opinions ? or rather, what would you like your 
opinions to be ? ” 

“I am an ardent republican,” said Gouache, boldly. It 
needed no ordinary courage to make such a statement to the 
incarnate chief of reactionary politics in those days — within 
the walls of the Vatican, not a hundred yards from the private 
apartments of the Holy Father. But Cardinal Antonelli 
smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least surprised nor 
offended. 

“ Eepublicanism is an exceedingly vague term. Monsieur 
Gouache,” he said. “ But with what other opinions do you 
wish to reconcile your republicanism ? ” 

“ With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, and 
I desire to remain one — indeed I cannot help remaining one.” 

“ Christianity is not vague, at all events,” answered the Car- 
dinal, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat astonished at the 
artist’s juxtaposition of two such principles. “In the first 
place, allow me to observe, my friend, that Christianity is the 
purest form of a republic which the world has ever seen, and 
that it therefore only depends upon your good sense to recon- 
cile in your own mind two ideas which from the first have been 
indissolubly bound together.” 

It was Gouache’s turn to be startled at the Cardinal’s confi- 
dence. 

“ I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some further ex- 
planation,” he said. “ I had no idea that Christianity and re- 
publicanism were the same thing.” 

“Eepublicanism,” returned the statesman, “is a vague term, 
invented in an abortive attempt to define by one word the mass 


SARACIKESCA. 


181 


of inextricable disorder arising in our times from the fusion of 
socialistic ideas with ideas purely republican. If you mean to 
. speak of this kind of thing, you must define precisely your posi- 
tion in regard to socialism, and in regard to the pure theory of 
a commonwealth. If you mean to speak of a real republic in 
any known form, such as the ancient Eoman, the Dutch, or the 
American, I understand you without further explanation.’’ 

“I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I believe 
that under a pure republic the partition of wealth would take 
care of itself.” 

. ‘^Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early 
Christians, should you say that their communities were mo- 
narchic, or aristocratic, or oligarchic ? ” 

None of those three, I should think,” said Gouache. 

There are only two systems left, then — democracy and hier- 
archy. You will probably say that the government of the early 
Christians was of the latter kind — that they were governed by 
priests, in fact. But, on the other hand, there is no doubt that 
both those who governed, and those who were governed by 
them, had all things in common, regarded no man as naturally 
superior to another, and preached a fraternity and equality at 
least as sincere as those inculcated by the first French Kepub- 
lic. I do not see how you can avoid calling such community a 
republic, seeing that there was an equal partition of wealth; 
and defining it as a democratic one, seeing that they all called 
each other brethren.” 

“But the hierarchy — what became of it ?” inquired Gouache. 

“ The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by common 
consent and for the public good, and formed a second demo- 
cracy of smaller extent but greater power. Any man might be- 
come a priest, any priest might become a bishop, any bishop 
might become pope, as surely as any born citizen of Eome could 
become consul, or any native of New York may be elected 
President of the United States. Now in theory this was beau- 
tiful, and in practice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the 
smaller republic, has survived in undiminished vigour to the 
present day. In the original Christian theory the whole world 
should now be one vast republic, in which all Christians should 
call each other brothers, and support each other in worldly as 
well as spiritual matters. Within this should exist the smaller 
republic of the hierarchy, by common consent, — an elective 
body, recruiting its numbers from the larger, as it does now; 
choosing its head, the sovereign Pontiff, as it does now, to be 
the head of both Church and State; eminently fitted for that 
position, for the very simple reason that in a community or- 
ganised and maintained upon such principles, in which, by 
virtue of the real and universal love of religion, the best men 


182 


SARACINESCA. 


would find their way into the Church, and would ultimately 
find their way to the papal throne.” 

‘‘Your Eminence states the case very convincingly,” an- 
swered Gouache. “ But why has the larger republic, which 
was to contain the smaller one, ceased to exist ? or rather, why 
did it never come into existence ? ” 

“ Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great con- 
tract. The matter lies in a nutshell. The men who enter the 
Church are sufficiently intelligent and well educated to appre- 
ciate the advantages of Christian democracy, fellowship, soli- 
darity, and brotherly love. The republic of the Church has 
therefore survived, and will survive for ever. The men who 
form the majority, on the other hand, have never had either 
the intelligence or the education to understand that democracy 
is the ultimate form of government : instead of forming them- 
selves into a federation, they have divided themselves into hos- 
tile factions, calling themselves nations, and seeking every oc- 
casion for destroying and plundering each other, frequently 
even turning against the Church herself. The Church has 
committed faults in history, without doubt, but on the whole 
she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and reaps the fruits of 
fidelity in the vigour and unity she displays after eighteen cen- 
turies. Man, on the other hand, has failed to do his duty, and 
all races of men are consequently suffering for their misdeeds; 
the nations are divided against each other, and every nation is 
a house divided against itself, which sooner or later shall fall.” 

“ But,” objected Gouache, “ allowing, as one easily may, that 
all this is true, your Eminence is always called reactionary in 
politics. Does that accord with these views ? ” 

Gouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he put it 
he worked calmly on with his pencil, labouring hard to catch 
something of the CardinaBs striking expression in the rough 
drawing he was making. 

“ Nothing is easier, my friend,” replied the statesman. “ The 
republic of the Church is driven to bay. We are on a war foot- 
ing. For the sake of strength we are obliged to hold together 
so firmly that for the time we can only think of maintaining 
old traditions without dreaming of progress or spending time 
in experiments. When we have weathered the storm we shall 
have leisure for improving much that needs improvement. Do 
not think that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise 
what I advise now. We are fighting now, and we have no time 
to think of the arts of peace. We shall have peace some day. 
We shall lose an ornament or two from our garments in the 
struggle, but our body will not be injured, and in time of peace 
our ornaments will be restored to us fourfold. But now there 
is war and rumour of war. There is a vast difference between 


SARACINESCA. 


183 


the ideal republic which I was speaking of, and the real an- 
archy and confusion which would be brought about by what is 
called republicanism.” 

“ In other words, if the attack upon the Church were sud- 
denly abandoned, your Eminence would immediately abandon 
your reactionary policy,” said Gouache, “and adopt progressive 
views ? ” 

“ Immediately,” replied the Cardinal. 

“ I see,” said Gouache. “ A little more towards me — just so 
that I can catch that eye. Thank you — that will do.” 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

When Del Ferice was thought sufficiently recovered of his 
wound to hear some of the news of the day, which was about 
three weeks after the duel, he learned that Astrardente was 
dead, that the Duchessa had inherited all his fortune, and that 
she was on the point of leaving Eome. It would be hard to 
say how the information of her approaching departure had got 
abroad ; it might be merely a clever guess of the gossips, or it 
might be the report gleaned from her maid by all the other 
maids in town. Be that as it may, when Del Ferice heard it 
he ground his teeth as he lay upon his bed, and swore that if 
it were possible to prevent the Duchessa Astrardente from 
leaving town he would do it. In his judgment it would be a 
dangerous thing to let Corona and Giovanni part, and to allow 
Donna Tullia free play in her matrimonial designs. Of course 
Giovanni would never marry Madame Mayer, especially as he 
was now at liberty to marry the Astrardente; but Madame 
Mayer herself might become fatally interested in him, as she 
already seemed inclined to be, and this would be bad for Del 
Ferice^s own prospects. It would not do to squander any of 
the advantages gained by the death of the old Duca. Giovanni 
must be hastened into a marriage with Corona; it would be 
time enough to think of revenge upon him afterwards for the 
ghastly wound that took so long to heal. 

It was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were not 
allies, for if Madame Mayer hated Corona d^ Astrardente, Ugo 
del Ferice detested Giovanni with equal virulency, not only 
because he had been so terribly worsted by him in the duel his 
own vile conduct had made inevitable, but because Donna Tul- 
lia loved him and was doing her very best to marry him. Evi- 
dently the best thing to be done was to produce a misunder- 
standing between the two; but it would be dangerous to play 
any tricks with Giovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power 
by his knowledge of that disagreeable scene behind the plants 
in the conservatory. Saracinesca was a great man in society 


184 


SARACUiTESCA. 


and celebrated for his honesty; people would believe him rather 
than Del Ferice, if the story got abroad. This would not do. 
The next best thing was to endeavour to draw Giovanni and 
Corona together as quickly as possible, to precipitate their en- 
gagement, and thus to clear the field of a dangerous rival. 
Del Ferice was a very obstinate and a very intelligent man. 
He meant more than ever to marry Donna Tullia himself, and 
he would not be hindered in the accomplishment of his object 
by an insignificant scruple. 

He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should 
retard the healing of his throat; but in the long days and 
nights, when he lay silent in his quiet lodging, he had ample 
time to revolve many schemes in his brain. At last he no 
longer needed the care of the Sister of Mercy; his servant took 
charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day to dress his 
wound. He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who 
moved noiselessly about the room. 

Temistocle,” he said, “ you are a youth of intelligence : yon 
must use the gifts nature has given you.” 

Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty 
years of age. He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked 
nose, and a cast in one eye that gave him a singularly unplea- 
sant expression. As his master addressed him, he stood still 
and listened with a sort of distorted smile in acknowledgment 
of the compliment made him. 

Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d’Astrar- 
dente means to leave Home, and where she is going. You 
know somebody in the house ? ” 

“Yes, sir — the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for 
the baby of a cousin of mine — the young man who drives 
Prince Valdarno’s private brougham: a clever fellow, too.” 

“And this nnder-cook,” said Del Ferice, who was not above 
entering into details with his servant — “ is he a discreet cha- 
racter ? ” 

“Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes ” 

Temistocle grinned, and made a gesture which signified drink- 
ing. 

“And when he is drunk. ?” asked Del Ferice. 

“When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never re- 
members anything he has been told, or has said. When he is 
drunk he is a dictionary; but the first draught of water washes 
out his memory like a slate.” 

“Well— give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. 
Here is a scudo, Temistocle. You can make him very drunk 
for that.” 

Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money. 

“ Another couple of patils would make it safer,” he remarked. 


SARACINESCA. 


185 


‘‘Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk 
indeed. You must find out all he knows, and you must keep 
sober yourself.” 

“ Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge; he shall 
he squeezed dry, and sopped again and squeezed again. I will 
be his confessor.” 

“ If you find out what I want, I will give you ” Del Fe- 

nce hesitated; he did not mean to give too much. 

“ The grey trousers ?” asked Temistocle, with an avaricious 
light in the eye which did not wander. 

“Yes,” answered his master, rather regretfully; “ I suppose 
you must have the grey trousers at last.” 

“ For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,” re- 
turned Temistocle in great glee. 

Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the follow- 
ing morning the man entered and opened the shutters, and 
removed the little oil-light that had burned all night. He 
kept one eye upon his master, who presently turned slowly and 
looked inquiringly at him. 

“ The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the 
day after to-morrow,” said Temistocle. “ It is quite sure that 
she goes, because she has already sent out two pairs of horses, 
and several boxes of effects, besides the second housemaid and 
the butler and two grooms.” 

“ Ah ! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will get up 
this morning and sit in the next room.” 

“ And the grey trousers ?” 

“ Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous 
master living,” said Del Ferice, impressively. “ It is not every 
master who gives his servant a pair of grey trousers. Kemember 
that.” 

“ Heaven bless you. Signor Conte ! ” exclaimed Temistocle, 
devoutly. 

Del Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, and his 
wound was not entirely healed yet; but he set himself reso- 
lutely to his writing-table, and did not rise until he had written 
two letters. The first was carefully written in a large round 
hand, such as is used by copyists in Italy, resembling the 
Gothic. It was impossible to connect the laboriously formed 
and conventional letters with any particular person. It was 
very short, as follows : — 

“ It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d^ Astrar- 
dente is going to her castle in the Sabines on the day after to- 
morrow.” 

This laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp upon it ; 
but he concealed the address from Temistocle. The second 


186 


SARACINESCA. 


letter was longer, and written in his own small and ornate 
handwriting. It was to Donna Tiillia Mayer. It ran thus : — 

You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, most 
charming Donna Tullia, if you could conceive of my desola- 
tion and loneliness. For more than three weeks I have been 
entirely deprived of the pleasure, the exquisite delight, of con- 
versing with her for whom I have suffered. I still suffer so 
much. Ah! if my paper were a cloth of gold, and, my pen in 
moving traced characters of diamond and pearl, yet any words 
which speak of you would be ineffectually honoured by such 
transcription! In the miserable days and nights I have passed 
between life and death, it is your image which has consoled 
me, the echo of your delicate voice which has soothed my pain, 
the remembrance of the last hours I spent with you which has 
gilded the feverish dreams of my sickness. You are the 
guardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna Tullia. Do 
you know it ? But for you I would have wooed death as a 
comforter. As it is, I have struggled desperately to keep my 
grasp upon life, in the hope of once more seeing your smile and 
hearing your happy laugh; perhaps — I dare not expect it — I 
may receive from you some slight word of sympathy, some 
little half-sighed hint that you do not altogether regret having 
been in these long weeks the unconscious comforter of my 
sorrowing spirit and tormented body. You would hardly 
know me, could you see me; but saving for your sweet 
spiritual presence, which has rescued me from the jaws of 
death, you would never have seen me again. Is it presump- 
tion in me to write thus ? Have you ever given me a right to 
speak in these words ? I do not know. I do not care. Man 
has a right to be grateful. It is the first and most divine right 
I suppose, to feel and to express my gratitude. For out of the 
store of your kindness shown me when I was in the world, 
strong and happy in the privilege of your society, I have drawn 
healing medicine in my sickness, as tormented souls in purgatory 
get refreshment from the prayers of good and kind people who 
remember them on earth. So, therefore, if I have said too 
much, forgive me, forgive the heartfelt gratitude which 
prompts me; and believe still in the respectful and undying 
devotion of the humblest of your servants, Ugo Del Ferice.” 

Del Ferice read over what he had written with considerable 
satisfaction, and having addressed his letter to Donna Tullia, 
he lost no time in despatching Temistocle with it, instructing 
him to ask if there would be an answer. As soon as the man 
was out of the house, Ugo rang for his landlady, and sent for 
the porter’s little boy, to whom he delivered the letter to Don 
Giovanni, to be dropped into the nearest post-box. Then he lay 


SARACINESCA. 


187 


down, exhausted with his morning’s work. In the course of two 
hours Temistocle returned from Donna Tullia’s house with a 
little scented note — too much scented, and the paper just a 
shade too small. She took no notice of what he had said in his 
carefully penned epistle; but merely told him she was sin- 
cerely glad that he was better, and asked him to call as soon as 
he could. Ugo was not disappointed; he had expected no 
compromising expression of interest in response to his own 
effusions; and he was well pleased with the invitation, for it 
showed that what he had written had produced the desired result. 

Don Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note late 
in the evening. He had, of course, together with his father, 
deposited cards of condolence at the Palazzo Astrardente, and 
he had been alone to inquire if the Duchessa would receive 
him. The porter had answered that, for the present, there 
were standing orders to admit no one; and as Giovanni could 
boast of no especial intimacy, and had no valid excuse to give, 
he was obliged to be satisfied. He had patiently waited in the 
Villa Borghese and by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it 
for granted that sooner or later Corona’s carriage would ap- 
pear; but when at last he had seen her brougham, she had 
driven rapidly past him, thickly veiled, and he did not think 
she had even noticed him. He would have written to her, but 
he was still unable to hold a pen; and he refiected that, after 
all, it would have been a hideous farce for him to offer condo- 
lences and sympathy, however much he might desire to hide 
from himself his secret satisfaction at her husband’s death. 
Too proud to think of obtaining information through such 
base channels as Del Ferice was willing to use, he was wholly 
ignorant of Corona’s intentions; and it was a brilliant proof of 
Ugo’s astuteness that he had rightly judged Giovanni’s position 
with regard to her, and justly estimated the value of the news 
conveyed by his anonymous note. 

Saracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it angrily 
into the fire. He hated underhand dealings, and scorned him- 
self for the interest the note excited in him, wondering who 
could find advantage in informing him of the Duchessa’s 
movements. But the note took effect, nevertheless, although 
he was ashamed of it, and all night he pondered upon what it 
told him. The next day, at three o’clock, he went out alone, 
and walked rapidly towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was 
unable to bear the suspense any longer; the thought that Co- 
rona was going away, apparently to shut herself up in the solitude 
of the ancient fortress, for any unknown number of months, 
and that he might not see her until the autumn, was intole- 
rable. He knew that by the mere use of his name he could at 
least make sure that she should know he was at her door, and 


188 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


he determined to make the attempt. He waited a long time, 
pacing slowly the broad flagstones beneath the arch of the 
palace, while the porter himself went np with his card and 
message. The fellow had hesitated, but Don Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca was not a man to be refused by a servant. At last the 
porter returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the Sig- 
nora Duchessa would receive him. 

In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing- 
room. It had cost Corona a struggle to allow him to be 
admitted. She hesitated long, for it seemed like a positive 
wrong to her husband’s memory, but the woman in her yielded 
at last; she was going away on the following morning, and she 
could not refuse to see him for once. She hesitated again as 
she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he 
was in the room beyond; then at last she entered. 

Her face was very pale and very grave. Her simple gown of 
close-fitting black set ofi her height and figure, and flowed 
softly in harmony with her stately movements as she advanced 
towards Giovanni, who stood almost awe-struck in the middle 
of the room. He could not realise that this dark sad princess 
was the same woman to whom less than a month ago he had 
spoken such passionate words, whom he had madly tried to 
take into his arms. Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous 
in him to think of love in connection with so royal a woman ; 
and yet he knew that he loved her better and more truly than 
he had done a month before. She held out her hand to him, and 
he raised it to his lips. Then they both sat down in silence. 

I had despaired of ever seeing you again,” said Giovanni at 
last, speaking in a subdued voice. I had wished for some 
opportunity of telling you how sincerely I sympathise with you 
in your great loss.” It was a very formal speech, such as men 
make in such situations. It might have been better, but he 
was not eloquent ; even his rough old father had a better com- 
mand of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni 
could speak well enough when he was roused. But he felt 
constrained in the presence of the woman he adored. Corona 
herself hardly knew how to answer. 

“ You are very kind,” she said, simply. 

I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,” he 
answered. I need not tell you that both my father and 
myself would hold it an honour to assist you in any way.” He 
mentioned his father from a feeling of delicacy; he did not 
wish to put himself forward. 

“ You are very kind,” repeated Corona, gravely. I have 
not had any annoyance. I have an excellent man of business.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Then she seemed to under- 
stand that he was embarrassed, and spoke again. 


SARACINESCA. 


189 


1 am glad to see that you are recovered/^ she said. 

“ It was nothing/^ answered Giovanni, with a glance at his 
right arm, which was still confined in a bandage of black silk, 
but was no longer in a sling. 

It was very wrong of you,’^ returned Corona, looking seri- 
ously into his eyes. I do not know why you fought, but it 
was wrong ; it is a great sin.” 

Giovanni smiled a little. 

‘‘ We all have to sin sometimes,” he said. Would you have 
me stand quietly and see an abominable piece of baseness, and 
not lift a hand to punish the offender ? ” 

People who do base things always come to a bad end,” 
answered the Duchessa. 

‘‘ Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see justice 
done at once. I am sorry to have done anything you consider 
wrong,” he added, with a shade of bitterness. Will you per- 
mit me to change the subject ? Are you thinking of remain- 
ing in Eome, or do you mean to go away ? ” 

I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow,” answered Co- 
rona, readily. “ I want to be alone and in the country.” 

Giovanni showed no surprise : his anonymous information 
had been accurate ; Del Ferice had not parted with the grey 
trousers in vain.' 

“ I suppose you are right,” he said. “ But at this time of 
year I should think the mountains would be very cold.” 

‘‘ The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted up, 
and there are many warm rooms in it. I am fond of the old 
place, and I need to be alone for a long time.” 

Giovanni thought the conversation was becoming oppressive. 
He thought of what had passed between them at their last 
meeting in the conservatory of the Palazzo Frangipani. 

I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca,” he said, 
suddenly. “ You know it is not very far. May I hope that I 
may sometimes be permitted to see you ? ” 

Corona had certainly had no thought of seeing Giovanni 
when she had determined to go to Astrardente ; she had not 
been there often, and had not realised that it was within reach 
of the Saracinesca estate. She started slightly. 

“ Is it so near ? ” she asked. 

Half a day^s ride over the hills,” replied Giovanni. 

I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not be 
denied hospitality.” 

But you would rather not see me ? ” asked Saracinesca, in 
a tone of disappointment. He had hoped for something more 
encouraging. Corona answered courageously. 

I would rather not see you. Do not think me unkind,” 
she added, her voice softening a little. Why need there be 


190 


SARACIIirESCA. 


any explanations ? Do not try to see me. I wish you well; I 
wish you more — all happiness — but do not try to see me.” 

Giovanni^s face grew grave and pale. He was disappointed, 
even humiliated; but something told him that it was not cold- 
ness which prompted her request. 

Your commands are my laws,” he answered. 

I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask you as 
a command, you should feel that it ought to be the natural 
prompting of your own heart,” replied Corona, somewhat coldly. 

Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you 
must effectually forbid,” said Giovanni. I beseech you to he 
satisfied that what you ask I will perform — blindly.” 

“ Not blindly — you know all my reasons.” 

There is that between you and me which annihilates rea- 
son,” answered Giovanni, his voice trembling a little. 

“ There is that in my position which should command your 
respect,” said Corona. She feared he was going too far, and 
yet this time she knew she had not said too much, and that in 
bidding him avoid her, she was only doing what was strictly 
necessary for her peace. “ I am a widow,” she continued, very 
gravely; I am a woman, and I am alone. My only protection 
lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men like you. 
You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheer- 
fully fulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very 
plainly. You recall to me a moment of great pain, and your 
presence, the mere fact of my receiving you, seems a disloyalty 
to the memory of my husband. I have given you no reason to 
believe that I ever took a greater interest in you than such as 
I might take in a friend. I hourly pray that this — this too 
great interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and leave you 
what you were before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I 
do not mean to speak unkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech 
you, but take this as my last word. Forget me if you can ” 

I cannot,” said Giovanni, deeply moved. 

“ Try. If you cannot, God help you ! but I am sure that if 
you try faithfully, you will succeed. And now you must go,” 
she said, in gentler tones. “You should not have come — I 
should not have let you see me. But it is best so. I am 
grateful for the sympathy you have expressed. I do not 
doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as you have 
promised. Good-bye.” 

Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. Gio- 
vanni had no choice. She let her eyes rest upon him, not 
unkindly, but she did not extend her hand. He stood one 
moment in hesitation, then bowed and left the room without a 
word. Corona stood still, and her eyes followed his retreating 
figure until at the door he turned once more and bent his head 


SARACINESCA. 


191 


and then was gone. Then she fell back into her chair and 
gazed listlessly at the wall opposite. 

“ It is done/^ she said at last. I hope it is well done and 
wisely.’^ Indeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was 
better to say it at once than to regret an ill-timed indulgence 
when it should be too late. And yet it had cost her less to send 
him away definitely than it had cost her to resist his passionate 
appeal a month ago. She seemed to have gained strength from 
her sorrows. So he was gone! She gave a sigh of relief, which 
was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden that 
she hardly understood it. 

Her preparations were all made. She had at the last moment 
realised that it was not fitting for her, at her age, to travel 
alone, nor to live wholly alone in her widowhood. She had 
revolved the matter in her mind, and had decided that there 
was no woman of her acquaintance whom she could ask even 
for a short time to stay with her. She had no friends, no rela- 
tions, none to turn to in such a need. It was not that she 
cared for company in her solitude; it was merely a question of 
propriety. To overcome the difficulty, she obtained permission 
to take with her one of the sisters of a charitable order of nuns, 
a lady in middle life, but broken down and in ill health from 
her untiring labours. The thing was easily managed; and the 
next morning, on leaving the palace, she stopped at the gate of 
the community and found Sister Gabrieli e waiting with her 
modest box. The nun entered the huge travelling carriage, 
and the two ladies set out for Astrardente. 

It was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad one for 
Giovanni Saracinesca. He would have been capable of leaving 
Rome at once, but that he had promised Corona not to attempt 
to see her. He would have gone to Saracinesca for the mere 
sake of being nearer to her, had he not reflected that he would 
be encouraging all manner of gossip by so doing. But he 
determined that so soon as Lent began, he would declare his 
intention of leaving the city for a year. Ho one ever went to 
Saracinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the an- 
cestral castle without creating suspicion. He might even go 
to Paris for a few days, and have it supposed that he was 
wandering about Europe, for he could trust his own servants 
implicitly; they were not of the type who would drink wine at 
a tavern with Temistocle or any of his class. 

The old Prince came into his soffis room in the morning and 
found him disconsolately looking over his guns, for the sake 
of an occupation. 

‘‘Well, GiovannV he said, “you have time to reflect upon 
your future conduct. What! are you going upon a shooting 
expedition ? 


192 


SARACINESCA. 


''I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do/' 
answered Giovanni, laying down the breech-loader and looking 
out of the window. The world is turned inside out like a 
beggar’s pocket, and there is nothing in it.” 

‘‘ So the Astrardente is gone,” remarked the Prince. 

Yes; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca,” re- 
plied Giovanni, with an angry intonation. 

“ Do not go there yet,” said his father. Leave her alone a 
while. Women become frantic in solitude.” 

Do you think I am an idiot ? ” exclaimed Giovanni. ** Of 
course I shall stay where I am till Carnival is over.” He was 
not in a good hun our. 

Why are you so petulant ? ” retorted the old man. “ I 
merely gave you my advice.” 

“ Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When Carnival 
is over I will go away, and perhaps get to Saracinesca by a 
roundabout way, so that no one will know where I am. Will 
you not come too ? ” 

“ I daresay,” answered the Prince, who was always pleased 
when his son expressed a desire for his company. “ I wish we 
lived in the good old times.” 

« Why?” 

“We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente and 
carrying off the Duchessa for you, my boy,” said the Prince, 
grimly. 

Giovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed his 
mind. He was not quite sure whether it was respectful to 
Corona to think of carrying her off in the way his father sug- 
gested; but there was a curious flavour of possibility in the 
I suggestion, coming as it did from a man whose grandfather 
^might have done such a thing, and whose great-grandfather 
jwas said to have done it. So strong are the instincts of bar- 
fbaric domination in races wLere the traditions of violence exist 
f in an unbroken chain, that both father and son smiled at the 
idea as if it were quite natural, although Giovanni had only 
'the previous day promised that he would not even attempt to 
see Corona d’Astrardente without her permission. He did not 
tell his father of his promise, however, for his more delicate 
instinct made him sure that though he had acted rightly, his 
father would laugh at his scruples, and tell him that women 
liked to be wooed roughly. 

Meanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for him a 
vast solitude, and the smile soon faded from his face at the 
thought that he must go out into the world, and for Corona’s 
sake act as though nothing had happened. 


8ARACINESCA. 


193 


CHAPTER XX. 

Poor Madame Mayer was in great anxiety of mind. She had 
not a great amount of pride, but she made up for it by a 

E lentiful endowment of vanity, in which she suffered acutely. 

he was a good-natured woman enough, and by nature she was 
not vindictive; but she could not help being jealous, for she 
was in love. She felt how Giovanni every day evidently cared 
less and less for her society, and how. On the other hand, Del 
Ferice was quietly assuring his position, so that people already 
began to whisper that he had a chance of becoming her hus- 
band. She did not dislike Del Ferice; he was a convenient 
man of the world, whom she always found ready to help her 
when she needed help. But by dint of making use of him, she 
was beginning to feel in some way bound to consider him as an 
element in her life, and she did not like the position. The 
letter he had written her was of the kind a man might write to 
the woman he loved ; it bordered upon the familiar, even while 
the writer expressed himself in terms of exaggerated respect. 
Perhaps if Del Ferice had been well, she would have simply 
taken no notice of what he had written, and would not even 
have sent an answer; but she had not the heart to repulse him 
altogether in his present condition. There was a phrase cun- 
ningly introduced and ambiguously worded, which seemed to 
mean that he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke 
of having suffered and of still suffering so much for her, — did 
he mean to refer to pain of body or of mind It was not cer- 
tain. Don Giovanni had assured her that she was in no way 
concerned in the duel, and he was well known for his honesty; 
nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might have desired to conceal 
the truth from her. It seemed like him. She longed for an 
opportunity of talking with him and eliciting some explanation 
of his conduct. There had been a time when he used to visit 
her, and always spent some time in her society when they met 
in the world — now, on the contrary, he seemed to avoid her 
whenever he could; and in proportion as she noticed that his 
manner cooled, her own jealousy against Corona d^Astrardente 
increased in force, until at last it seemed to absorb her love for 
anni into itself and turn it into hate. 



^XTjove is a passion which, like certain powerful drugs, acts 
differently upon each different constitution of temper; love 
also acts more strongly when it is unreturned or thwarted than 
when it is mutual and uneventful. If two persons love each 
other truly, and there is no obstacle to their union, it is proba- 
ble that, without any violent emotion, their love will grow and 
become stronger by imperceptible degrees, without changing 
in its natural quality; but if thwarted by untoward circum- 


194 


SARAOINESCA. 


stances, the passion, if true, attains suddenly to the dimensions 
which it would otherwise need years to reach. It sometimes 
happens that the nature in which this unforeseen and abnor- 
mal development takes place is unable to bear the precocious 
growth; then, losing sight of its identity in the strange inward 
confusion of heart and mind which ensues, it is driven to mad- 
ness, and, breaking every barrier, either attains its object at a 
single bound, or is shivered and ruined in dashing itself against 
the impenetrable wall of complete impossibility. But again, 
in the last case, when love is wholly unreturned, it dies a 
natural death of atrophy, when it has existed in a person of 
common and average nature; or if the man or woman so 
afflicted be proud and of noble instincts, the passion becomes a 
kind of religion to the heart — sacred, and worthy to be guarded 
from the eyes of the world; or, finally, again, where it finds 
vanity the dominant characteristic of the being in whom it has 
grown, it draws a poisonous life from the unhealthy soil on 
which it is fed, and the tender seed of love shoots and puts 
forth evil leaves and blossoms, and grows to be a most venomous 
tree, which is the tree of hatred-:;^ 

Donna Tullia was certainly a woman who belonged to the 
latter class of individuals. She had qualities which were per- 
haps good because not bad ; but the mainspring of her being 
was an inordinate vanity; and it was in this characteristic that 
she was most deeply wounded, as she found herself gradually 
abandoned by Giovanni Saracinesca. She had been in the 
habit of thinking of him as a probable husband; the popular talk 
had fostered the idea, and occasional hints, and smiling ques- 
tions concerning him, had made her feel that he could not long 
hang back. She had been in the habit of treating him famil- 
iarly; and he, tutored by his father to the belief that she was 
the best match for him, and reluctantly yielding to the force 
of circumstances, which seemed driving him into matrimony, 
had suffered himself to be ordered about and made use of with 
an indifference which, in Madame Mayer’s eyes, had passed for 
consent. She had watched with growing fear and jealousy his 
devotion to the Astrardente, which all the world had noticed; 
and at last her anger had broken out at the affront she had 
received at the Frangipani ball. But even then she loved 
Giovanni in her own vain way. It was not till Corona was sud- 
denly left a widow, that Donna Tullia began to realise the 
hopelessness of her position; and when she found how deter- 
minately Saracinesca avoided her wherever they met, the affec- 
tion she had hitherto felt for him turned into a bitter hatred, 
stronger even than her jealousy against the Duchessa. There 
was ho scene of explanation between them, no words passed, no 
dramatic situation, such as Donna Tullia loved; the change 


SARACINESCA. 


195 


-came in a few days, and was complete. She had not even the 
satisfaction of receiving some share of the attention Giovanni 
wonld have bestowed npon Corona if she had been in town. 
Not only had he grown utterly indilferent to her; he openly 
avoided her, and thereby inflicted npon her vanity the cruellest 
wound she was capable of feeling. 

With Donna Tullia to hate was to injure, to long for revenge 
— not of the kind which is enjoyed in secret, and known only 
to the person who suffers and the person who causes the suffer- 
ing. She did not care for that so much as she desired some 
brilliant triumph over her enemies before the world; some 
startling instance of poetic justice, which should at one blow 
do a mortal injury to Corona d^’Astrardente, and bring Giovanni 
Saracinesca to her own feet by force, repentant and crushed, to 
be dealt with as she saw fit, according to his misdeeds. But 
she had chosen her adversaries ill, and her heart misgave her. 
She had no hold upon them, for they were very strong people, 
very powerful, and very much respected by their fellows. It 
was not easy to bring them into trouble; it seemed impossible 
to humiliate them as she wished to do, and yet her hate was 
very strong. She waited and pondered, and in the meanwhile, 
when she met Giovanni, she began to treat him with haughty 
coldness. But Giovanni smiled, and seemed well satisfied that 
she should at last give over what was to him very like a perse- 
cution. Her anger grew hotter from its very impotence. The 
world saw it, and laughed. 

The days of Carnival came and passed, much as they usually 
pass, in a whirl of gaiety. Giovanni went everywhere, and 
showed his grave face; but he talked little, and of course every 
one said he was melancholy at the departure of the Duchessa. 
Nevertheless he kept up an appearance of interest in what was 
done, and as nobody cared to risk asking h.^m questions, people 
left him in peace. The hurrying crowd of social life filled up 
the place occupied by old Astrardente and the beautiful Du- 
chessa, and they were soon forgotten, for they had not had 
many intimate friends. 

On the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared once 
more. He had not been able to resist the temptation of getting 
one glimpse of the world he loved, before the wet blanket of 
Lent extinguished the lights of the ballrooms and the jollity of 
the dancers. Every one was surprised to see him, and most 
people were pleased; he was such a useful man, that he had 
often been missed during the time of his illness. He was im- 
proved in appearance; for though he was very pale, he had 
grown also extremely thin, and his features had gained delicacy. 

When Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the two 
men exchanged a formal salutation, while every one stood still 


196 


SAEACINESCA. 


for a moment to see the meeting. It was over in a moment, 
and society gave a little sigh of relief, as though a weight were 
removed from its mind. Then Del Ferice went to Donna 
Tullia’s side. They were soon alone upon a small sofa in a 
small room, whither a couple strayed now and then to remain a 
few minutes before returning to the ball. A few people passed 
through, but for more than an hour they were not disturbed. 

“I am very glad to see you,^^ said Donna Tullia; ^‘but I had 
hoped that the first time you went out you would have come to 
my house, 

This is the first time I have been out — you see I should not 
have found you at home, since I have found you here.’’^ 

Are you entirely recovered ? You still look ill.” 

I am a little weak— but an hour with you will do me more 
good than all the doctors in the world.” 

Thanks,” said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh. It was 
strange to see you shaking hands with Giovanni Saracinesca 
just now. I suppose men have to do that sort of thing.” 

“ You may be sure I would not have done it unless it had 
been necessary,” returned Del Ferice, bitterly. 

“ I should think not. What an arrogant man he is ! ” 

“ You no longer like him ? ” asked Del Ferice, innocently. 

‘‘Like him ! No; I neveiTiked him,” replied Donna Tullia, 
quickly. 

“ Oh, I thought you did ; I used to wonder at it.” Ugo 
grew thoughtful. 

“ I was always good to him,” said Donna Tullia. “ But of 
course I can never forgive him for what he did at the Fran- 
gipani ball.” 

“No; nor I,” answered Del Ferice, readily. “I shall always 
hate him for that too.” 

“ I do not say that I exactly hate him.” 

“You have every reason. It appears to me that since my 
illness we have another idea in common, another bond of sym- 
pathy.” Del Ferice spoke almost tenderly; but he laughed 
immediately afterwards, as though not wishing his words to be 
interpreted too seriously. Donna Tullia smiled too; she was 
inclined to be very kind to him. 

“ You are very quick to jump at conclusions,” she said, play- 
ing with her red fan and looking down. 

“It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion — that 
you and I are in sympathy,” he answered, with a tender glance, 
“ even in regard to hating the same person. The bond would 
be close indeed, if it depended on the opposite of hate. And 
vet I sometimes think it does. Are you not the best friend I 
have in the world ? ” 

“ I do not know,.— I am a good friend to you,” she answered. 


SAEACINESCA. 


197 


“Indeed you are; but do you not think it would be possible 
to cement our friendship even more closely yet 

Donna Tullia looked up sharply; she had no idea of allow- 
ing him to propose to marry her. His face, however, was grave 
— unlike his usual expression when he meant to be tender, and 
which she knew very well. 

“I do not know,^^ she said, with a light laugh. “How do 
you mean ? ” 

“ If I could do you some great service — if I could by any 
means satisfy what is now your chief desire in life — would not 
that help to cement our friendship, as I said ? 

“ Perhaps,^’ she answered, thoughtfully. “ But then you do 
not know — you cannot guess even — what I most wish at this 
moment.” 

“ I think I could,” said Del Ferice, fixing his eyes upon her. 
“ I am sure I could, but I will not. I should risk offending 
you.” 

“No; I will not be angry. You may guess if you please.” 
Donna Tullia in her turn looked fixedly at her companion. 
They seemed trying to read each other’s thoughts. 

“ Very well,” said Ugo at last, “ I will tell you. You would 
like to see the Astrardente dead and Giovanni Saracinesca pro- 
foundly humiliated.” 

Donna Tullia started. But indeed there was nothing strange 
in her companion’s knowledge of her feelings. Many people, 
being asked what she felt, would very likely have said the same, 
for the world had seen her discomfiture and had laughed at it. 

“You are a very singular man,” she said, uneasily. 

“ In other words,” replied Del Ferice, calmly, “ I am per- 
fectly right in my surmises. I see it in your face. Of course,” 
he added, with a laugh, “ it is mere jest. But the thing is quite 
possible. If I fulfilled your desire of just and poetic vengeance, 
what would you give me ? ” 

Donna Tullia laughed in her turn, to conceal the extreme 
interest she felt in what he said. 

“AVhatever you like,” she said. But even while the laugh 
was on her lips her eyes sought his uneasily. 

“ Would you marry me, for instance, as the enchanted prin- 
cess in the fairy story marries the prince who frees her from 
the spell ? ” He seemed immensely amused at the idea. 

“ Why not ? ” she laughed. 

“ It would be the only just recompense,” he answered. “ See 
how impossible the thing appears. And yet a few pounds of 
dynamite would blow up the Great Pyramid. Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca is not so strong as he looks.” 

“Oh, I would not have him hurt!” exclaimed Donna Tullia 
in alarm. 


198 


SARACINESCA. 


I do not mean physically, nor morally, but socially/^ 

That is my secret,'' returned Del Ferice, quietly. 

‘‘It sounds as though you were pretending to know more 
than you really do," she answered. 

“No; it is the plain truth," said Del Ferice, quietly. “If 
you were in earnest I might be willing to tell you what the 
secret is, but for a mere jest I cannot. It is far too serious a 
matter." 

His tone convinced Donna Tullia that he really possessed 
some weapon which he could use against Don Giovanni if he 
pleased. She wondered only why, if it were true, he did not 
use it, seeing that he must hate Saracinesca with all his heart. 
Del Ferice knew so much about people, so many strange and 
forgotten stories, he had so accurate a memory and so acute 
an intelligence, that it was by no means impossible that he was 
in possession of some secret connected with the Saracinesca. 
They were, or were thought to be, wild, unruly men, both 
father and son; there were endless stories about them both; 
and there was nothing more likely than that, in his numerous 
absences from home, Giovanni had at one time C>r another fig- 
ured in some romantic affair, which he would be sorry to have 
had generally known. Del Ferice was wise enough to keep his 
own counsel; but now that his hatred was thoroughly roused, 
he might very likely make use of the knowledge he possessed. 
Donna Tullia's curiosity was excited to its highest pitch, and 
at the same time she had pleasant visions of the possible humili- 
ation of the man by whom she felt herself so ill-used. It would 
be worth while making the sacrifice in order to learn Del Fe- 
nce's secret. 

“ This need not be a mere jest," she said, after a moment's 
silence. 

“ That is as you please," returned Del Ferice, seriously. “ If 
you are willing to do your part, you may be sure that I will do 
mine." 

“ You cannot think I really meant what I said just now," 
replied Donna Tullia. “It would be madness." 

^ “ Why ? Am I halt, am I lame, am I blind ? Am I repul- 
sively ugly ? Am I a pauper, that I should care for your 
money ? Have I not loved you — yes, loved you long and faith- 
fully ? Am I too old ? Is there anything in the nature of 
things why I should not aspire to be your husband ? " 

It was strange. He spoke calmly, as though enumerating 
the advantages of a friend. Donna Tullia looked at him for a 
moment, and then laughed outright. 

“No," she said; “all that is very true. You may aspire, as 
you call it. The question is, whether I shall aspire too. Of 


SARACINESCA. 


199 


course, if we happened to agree in aspiring, we could be mar- 
ried to-morrow/^ 

Precisely answered Del Ferice, perfectly unmoved. ^‘1 
am not proposing to marry you. I am arguing the case. 
There is this in the case which is perhaps outside the argument 
— this, that I am devotedly attached to you. The case is the 
stronger for that. I was only trying to demonstrate that the 
idea of our being married is not so unutterably absurd. You 
laughingly said you would marry me if I could accomplish 
something which would please you very much. I laughed also; 
but now I seriously repeat my proposition, because I am con- 
vinced that although at first sight it may appear extremely 
humorous, on a closer inspection it will be found exceedingly 
practical. In union is strength. 

Donna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew 
grave. There was reason in what he said. She did not care 
for him — she had never thought of marrying him; but she 
recognised the justice of what he said. It was clear that a 
man of his social position, received everywhere and intimate 
with all hen associates, might think of marrying her. He 
looked positively handsome since he was wounded ; he was ac- 
complished and intelligent; he had sufficient means of support 
to prevent him from being suspected of marrying solely for 
money, and he had calmly stated that he loved her. Perhaps 
he did. It was flattering to Donna Tullia^s vanity to believe 
him, and his acts had certainly not belied his words. He was 
by far the most thoughtful of all her admirers, and he affected 
to treat her always with a certain respect which she had never 
succeeded in obtaining from Valdarno and the rest. A woman 
who likes to be noisy, but is conscious of being a little vulgar, 
is always flattered when a man behaves towards her with pro- 
found reverence. It will even sometimes cure her of her vul- 
gfarity. Donna Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del Ferice 
had said. 

I never had such a proposition made to me in my life,^^ she 
said. Of course you cannot think I regard it as a possible 
one, even now. You cannot think I am so base as to sell my- 
self for the sake of revenging an insult once offered me. If I 
am to regard this as a proposal of marriage, I must decline it 
with thanks. If it is merely a proposition for an alliance, I 
think the terms of the treaty are unequal.'" 

Del Ferice smiled. 

I knew you well enough to know what your answer would 
be," he said. ‘^I never insulted you by dreaming that you 
would accept such a proposition. But as a subject for specu- 
lation it is very pleasant. It is delightful to me to think of 
being your husband; it is equally delightful to you to think of 


200 


SARACIKESCA. 


the humiliation of an enemy. I took the liberty of uniting 
the two thoughts in one dream — a dream of unspeakable bliss 
for myself.” 

Donna Tullia’s gay humour returned. 

“You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter of 
an hour with your dreams,” she answered. “ I wish you would 
tell me what you know of Don Giovanni. It must be very 
interesting if it can really seriously influence his life.” 

“I cannot tell you. The secret is too valuable.” 

“ But if the thing you know has such power, why do you not 
use it yourself ? You must hate him far more than I do.” 

“ I doubt that,” answered Del Ferice, with a cunning smile. 
“I do not use it, I do not choose to strike the blow, because I 
do not care enough for retribution merely on my own account. 
I do not pretend to generosity, but I am not interested enough 
in him to harm him, though I dislike him exceedingly. We 
had a temporary settlement of our difficulties the other day, 
and we were both wounded. Poor Casalverde lost his head 
and did a foolish thing, and that cold-blooded villain Spicca 
killed him in consequence. It seems to me that there has been 
enough blood spilled in our quarrel. I am prepared to leave 
him alone so far as I am concerned. But for you it would be 
different. I could do something worse than kill him if I chose.” 

“ For me ? ” said Donna Tullia. “ What would you do for 
me ? ” She smiled sweetly, willing to use all her persuasion to 
extract his secret. 

“ I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the Astrar- 
dente, as he intends to do,” he answered, looking straight at 
his companion. 

“ How in the world could you do that ?” she asked, in great 
surprise. 

“That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. I 
cannot reveal it to you at present.” 

“ You are as dark as the Holy Office,” said Donna Tullia, a 
little impatiently. “What possible harm could it do if you 
told me ? ” 

“AVhat possible good either?” asked Del Ferice, in reply. 
“You could not use it as I could. You would gain no advan- 
tage by knowing it. Of course,” he added, with a laugh, “ if 
we entered into the alliance we were jesting about, it would be 
different.” 

“ You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you ?” 

“Frankly, no,” he answered, still laughing. 

It exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that he 
was in possession of what she so coveted, and to feel that he 
was bargaining, half in earnest, for her life in exchange for his 
secret. She was almost tempted for one moment to assent, to 


SARACINESCA. 


201 


say she would marry him, so great was her curiosity; it would 
be easy to break her promise, and laugh at him afterwards. 
But she was not a bad woman, as women of her class are con- 
sidered. She had suffered a great disappointment, and her 
resentment was in proportion to her vanity. But she was not 
prepared to give a false promise for the sake of vengeance; she 
was only bad enough to imagine such bad faith possible. 

“ But you said you never seriously thought I could accept 
such an engagement,” she objected, not knowing what to say. 

did,” replied Del Ferice. might have added that I 
never seriously contemplated parting with my secret.” 

“ There is nothing to be got from you,” said Donna Tullia, in 
a tone of disappointment. I think that when you have nearly 
driven me mad with curiosity, you might really tell me some- 
thing.” 

“ Ah no, dear lady,” answered her companion. You may 
ask anything of me but that— anything. You may ask that 
too, if you will sign the treaty I propose.” 

“ You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer curi- 
osity,” said Donna Tullia, with an impatient laugh. 

I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my way to 
telling you as it is, for the thing is so curious that it would 
have the most intense interest for you. But it is quite out of 
the question.” 

You should never have told me anything about it,” replied 
Madame Mayer. 

^‘Well, I will think about it,” said Del Ferice at last, as 
though suddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. “ I will look 
over some papers I have, and I will think about it. I promise 
you that if I feel that I can conscientiously tell you something 
of the matter, you may be sure that I will.” 

Donna Tullia^s manner changed again, from impatience to 
persuasion. The sudden hope he held out to her was delicious 
to contemplate. She could not realise that Del Ferice, having 
once thoroughly interested her, could play upon her moods as 
on the keys of an instrument. If she had been less anxious 
that the story he told should be true, she might have suspected 
that he was practising upon her credulity. But she seized the 
idea of obtaining some secret infiuence over the life of Gio- 
vanni, and it completely carried her away. 

Yon must tell me — I am sure you will,” she said, letting 
her kindest glance rest upon her companion. Come and dine 
with me, — do you fast? No — nor I. Come on Friday — will 
you ? ” 

shall be delighted,” answered Del Ferice, with a quiet 
smile of triumph. 

I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell me at 


202 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


dinner; but she will go to sleep soon afterwards — she always 
does. Come at seven. Besides, she is deaf, you know/^ 

The old lady in question was the aged Countess whom 
Donna Tullia affected as a companion in her solitary mag- 
nificence. 

“ And now, will you take me back to the ball-room ? I have 
an idea that a partner is looking for me.^^ 

Del Ferice left her dancing, and went home in his little 
coupe. He was desperately fatigued, for he w^as still very 
weak, and he feared lest his imprudence in going out so soon 
might bring on a relapse from his convalescence. Neverthe- 
less, before he went to bed he dismissed Temistocle, and opened 
a shabby-looking black box which stood upon his writing- 
table. It was bound with iron, and was fastened by a patent 
lock which had frequently defied Temistocle^s ingenuity. 
From this repository he took a great number of papers, which 
were all neatly filed away and marked in the owneFs small and 
ornamented handwriting. Beneath many packages of letters 
he found what he sought for, a long envelope containing seve- 
ral folded documents. 

He spread out the papers and read them carefully over. 

It is a very singular thing,” he said to himself ; but there 
can be no doubt about it. There it is.” 

He folded the papers again, returned them to their envelope, 
and replaced the latter deep among the letters in his box. 
He then locked it, attached the key to a chain he wore about 
his neck, and went to bed, worn out with fatigue. 


CHAPTEK XXI. 

Del Ferice had purposely excited Donna Tullia^s curiosity, 
and he meant before long to tell more than he had vouchsafed 
in his first confidence. But he himself trembled before the 
magnitude of what he had suddenly thought of doing, for the 
fear of Giovanni was in his heart. The temptation to boast to 
Donna Tullia that he had the means of preventing Giovanni 
from marrying was too strong; but when it had come to tell- 
ing her what those means were, prudence had restrained him. 
He desired that if the scheme were put into execution it might 
be by some one else; for, extraordinary as it was, he was not 
absolutely certain of its success. He was not sure of Donna 
Tullia’s discretion, either, until by a judicious withholding of 
the secret he had given her a sufficient idea of its importance. 
But on mature reflection he came to the conclusion that, even 
if she possessed the information he was able to give, she would 
not dare to mention it, nor even to hint at it. 

The grey light of Ash-Wednesday morning broke over Rome, 


SARACINESCA. 


203 


and stole through the windows of Giovanni Saracinesca^s bed- 
room. Giovanni had not slept much, but his restlessness was 
due rather to his gladness at having performed the last of his 
social duties than to any disturbance of mind. All night he 
lay planning what he should do, — how he might reach his place 
in the mountains by a circuitous route, leaving the general im- 
pression that he was abroad — and how, when at last he had got 
to Saracinesca unobserved, he would revel in the solitude and 
in the thought of being within half a day^s journey of Corona 
d^Astrardente. He was willing to take a great deal of trouble, 
for he did not wish people to know his whereabouts; he would 
not have it said that he had gone into the country to be near 
Corona and to see her every day, as would certainly be said if 
his real movements were discovered. Accordingly, he fulfilled 
his programme to the letter. He left Rome on the afternoon 
of Ash- Wednesday for Florence; there he visited several ac- 
quaintances who, he knew, would write to their friends in Rome 
of his appearance; from Florence he went to Paris, and gave 
out that he was going upon a shooting expedition in the Arctic 
regions, as soon as the weather was warm enough. As he was 
well known for a sportsman and a traveller, this statement 
created no suspicion; and when he finally left Paris, the news- 
papers and the gossips all said he had gone to Copenhagen on 
his way to the far north. In due time the statement reached 
Rome, and it was supposed that society had lost sight of Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca for at least eight months. It was thought 
that he had acted with great delicacy in absenting himself; he 
would thus allow the first months of Coronals mourning to 
pass before formally presenting himself to society as her suitor. 
Considering the peculiar circumstances of the case, there would 
be nothing improper, from a social point of view, in his marry- 
ing Corona at the expiration of a year after her husband^s 
death. Of course he would marry her; there was no doubt of 
that — he had been in love with her so long, and now she was 
both free and rich. No one suspected that Giovanni, instead 
of being in Scandinavia, was quietly established at Saracinesca, 
a day^s journey from Rome, busying himself with the manage- 
ment of the estate, and momentarily satisfied in feeling himself 
so near the woman he loved. 

Donna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del 
Ferice was coming to dinner: she was several times on the 
point of writing a note to ask him to come at once. But she 
wisely refrained, guessing that the more she pressed him the 
more difficulties he would make. At last he came, looking pale 
and worn — interesting, as Donna Tullia would have expressed 
it. The old Countess talked a great deal during dinner; but 
as she was too deaf to hear more than a quarter of what was 


204 


SARACINESCA. 


said by the others, the conversation was not interesting. When 
the meal was over, she established herself in a comfortable 
chair in the little sitting-room, and took a book. After a few 
minutes, Donna Tullia suggested to Del Ferice that they 
should go into the drawing-room. She had received some new 
waltz-music from Vienna which she wanted to look over, and 
Ugo might help her. She was not a musician, but was fond of 
a cheerful noise, and played upon the piano with the average 
skill of a well-educated young woman of the world. Of course 
the doors were left open between the drawing-room and the 
boudoir, where the Countess dozed over her book and presently 
fell asleep. 

Donna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del Ferice 
sit beside her. She struck a few chords, and played a frag- 
ment of dance-music. 

Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is gone ? she 
asked, carelessly. ‘‘I suppose he is gone to Saracinesca; they 
say there is a very good road between that and Astrardente.^^ 

I should think he would have more decency than to pursue 
the Duchessa in the first month of her mourning,” answered 
Del Ferice, resting one arm upon the piano, and supporting his 
pale face with his hand as he watched Donna Tullia’s fingers 
move upon the keys. 

Why ? He does not care what people say — why should he ? 
He will marry her when the year is out. Why should he care ? ” 

“He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,” said 
Del Ferice, quietly. 

“ So you told me the other night,” returned Donna Tullia. 
“ But you will allow him, of course. Besides, you could not 
stop it, after all. I do not believe that you could.” She 
leaned far back in her chair, her hands resting upon the keys 
without striking them, and she looked at Del Ferice with a 
sweet smile. There was a moments pause. 

“ I have decided to tell you something,” he said at last, 
‘upon one condition.” 

“Why make conditions?” asked Donna Tullia, trying to 
conceal her excitement. 

^ “ Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never to men- 
tion what I am going to tell you without previously consulting 
me ? I do not mean a common promise ; I mean it to be an 
oath.” He spoke very earnestly. “ This is a very serious 
matter. We are playing with fire and with life and death. 
You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret.” 

His manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen 
him so much in earnest in her life. 

“ I will promise in any way you please,” she said. 

“ Then say this,” he answered. “ Say, ‘ I swear and solemnly 


SARACINESCA. 


205 


bind myself that I will faithfully keep the secret about to be 
committed to me; and that if I fail to keep it I will atone by 
immediately marrying Ugo del Ferice 

“ That is absurd !/' cried Donna Tullia, starting back from 
him. He did not heed her. 

' And I take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of 
my mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic 
of the True Cross.’ ” He pointed to the locket she wore at her 
neck, which she had often told him contained the relic he men- 
tioned. 

“ It is impossible ! ” she cried again. I cannot swear so 
solemnly about such a matter. I cannot promise to marry you.” 

Then it is because you cannot promise to keep my secret,” 
he answered calmly. He knew her very well, and he believed 
that she would not break such an oath as he had dictated, 
under any circumstances. He did not choose to risk anything 
by her indiscretion. Donna Tullia hesitated, seeing that he 
was firm. She was tortured with curiosity beyond all en- 
durance. 

“ I am only promising to marry you in case I reveal the 
secret ? ” she asked. He bowed assent. So that I am really 
only promising to be silent? AVell, I cannot understand why 
it should be solemn; but if you wish it so, I will do it. What 
are the words ? ” 

He repeated them slowly, and she followed him. He watched 
her at every word, to be sure she overlooked nothing. 

I, Tullia Mayer, swear and solemnly bind myself that I 
will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; 
and that if I fail to keep it, I will atone by immediately marry- 
ing Ugo del Ferice” — her voice trembled nervously: ^^and I 
take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of my mother, 
the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic of the True 
Cross.” At the last words she took the locket in her fingers. 

“ You understand that you have promised to marry me if 
you reveal my secret? You fully understand that?” asked 
Del Ferice. 

I understand it,” she answered hurriedly, as though ashamed 
of what she had done. ‘^And now, the secret,” she added 
eagerly, feeling that she had undergone a certain humiliation 
for the sake of what she so much coveted. 

''Don Giovanni cannot marry the Duchessa d’Astrardente, 
because ” — he paused a moment to give full weight to his 
statement — “ because Don Giovanni Saracinesca is married 
already.” 

What ! ” cried Donna Tullia, starting from her chair in 
amazement at the astounding news. 

^‘It is quite true,” said Del Ferice, with a quiet smile. 


206 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


Calm yourself ; it is quite true. I know what you are think- 
ing of — all Rome thought he was going to marry you.” 

Donna Tullia was overcome by the strangeness of the situa- 
tion. She hid her face in her hands for a moment as she leaned 
forward over the piano. Then she suddenly looked up. 

‘^What a hideous piece of villany!” she exclaimed, in a 
stifled voice. Then slowly recovering from the first shock of 
the intelligence, she looked at Del Ferice; she was almost as 
pale as he. “ What proof have you ? ” she asked. 

‘‘1 have the attested copy of the banns published by the 
priest who married them. That is evidence. Moreover, the 
real book of banns exists, and Giovanni^s name is upon the 
parish register. I have also a copy of the certificate of the 
civil marriage, which is signed by Giovanni himself.” 

Tell me more,” said Donna Tullia, eagerly. How did you 
find it ?” 

^Ht is very simple,” answered Del Ferice. ^^You may go 
and see for yourself, if you do not mind making a short 
journey. Last summer I was wandering a little for my 
health^ s sake, as I often do, and I chanced to be in the town of 
Aquila — you know, the capital of Abruzzi. One day I hap- 
pened to go into the sacristy of one of the parish churches to 
see some pictures which are hung there. There had been a 
marriage service performed, and as the sacristan moved about 
explaining the pictures, he laid his hand upon an open book 
which looked like a register of some kind. I idly asked him 
what it w^as, and he showed it to me; it was amusing to look at 
the names of the people, and I turned over the leaves curiously. 
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a name I knew — ^ Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca,’ written clearly across the page, and below 
it, ‘Felice Baldi’ — the woman he had married. The date of 
the marriage was the 19th of June, 1863. You remember, per- 
haps, that in that summer, in fact during the whole of that 
year, Don Giovanni was supposed to be absent upon his famous 
shooting expedition in Canada, about which he talks so much. 
It appears, then, that two years ago, instead of being in America, 
he was living in Aquila, married to Felice Baldi — probably 
some pretty peasant girl. I started at the sight of the names. 
I got permission to have an attested copy of it made by a 
notary. I found the priest who had married them, but he 
could not remember the couple. The man, he said, was dark, 
he was sure ; the woman, he thought, had been fair. He mar- 
ried so many people in a year. These were not natives of 
Aquila; they had apparently come there from the country — 
perhaps had met. The banns — yes, he had the book of banns; 
he had also the register of marriages from which he sometimes 
issued certified extr^-cts, He was a good old man, and seemed 


SARACINESCA. 


207 


ready to oblige me; but his memory was very defective. He 
allowed me to take notary’s copies of the banns and the entry 
in the list, as well as of the register. Then I went to the 
office of the State Civile. You know that people do not sign 
the register in the church themselves; the names are written 
down by the priest. I wanted to see the signatures, and the 
book of civil marriages was shown to me. 

‘‘The handwriting was Giovanni’s, I am sure — larger, and a 
little less firm, but distinguishable at a glance. I took the 
copies for curiosity, and never said anything about it, but I have 
kept them. That is the history. Do you see how serious a 
matter it is ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes,” answered Donna Tullia, who had listened with 
intense interest to the story. “But what could have induced 
him to marry that woman?” 

“ One of those amiable eccentricities peculiar to his family,” 
replied Del Ferice, shrugging his shoulders. “ The interesting 
thing would be to discover what became of Felice Baldi — Donna 
Felice Saracinesca, as I suppose she has a right to be called.” 

“Let us find her — Giovanni’s wife,” exclaimed Donna Tullia, 
eagerly. “ Where can she be ?” 

“ Who knows ?” ejaculated Del Ferice. “ I would be curious 
to see her. The name of her native village is given, and the 
names of her parents. Giovanni described himself in the paper 
as ‘ of Naples, a landholder,’ and omitted somehow the details 
of his parentage. Nothing could be more vague; everybody is 
a landholder, from the wretched peasant who cultivates one acre 
to their high-and-mightinesses the Princes of Saracinesca. 
Perhaps by going to the village mentioned some information 
might be obtained. He probably left her sufficiently provided 
for, and, departing on pretence of a day’s journey, never re- 
turned. He is a perfectly unscrupulous man, and thinks no more • 
of this mad scrape than of shooting a chamois in the Tyrol. He 
knows she can never find him — never guessed who he really was.” 

“Perhaps she is dead,” suggested Donna Tullia, her face 
suddenly growing grave. 

“ Why ? He would not have taken the trouble to kill her — 
a peasant girl in the Abruzzi! He would have had no difficulty 
in leaving her, and she is probably alive and well at tlie present 
moment, perhaps the mother of the future Prince Saracinesca 
— who can tell ? ” 

“But do you not see,” said Donna Tullia, “that unless you 
have proof that she is alive, we have no hold upon him ? He 
may acknowledge • the whole thing, and calmly inform us that 
she is dead.” 

“That is true; but even then he must show that she came to 
a natural end and was buried. Believe me, Giovanni would 


208 


SARACINESCA. 


relinquish all intentions of marrying the Astrardente rather 
than have this scandalous story published/^ 

I would like to tax him with it in a point-blank question, 
and watch his face,” said Donna Tullia, fiercely. 

" Remember your oath,” said Del Ferice. “ But he is gone 
now. You will not meet him for some months.” 

Tell me, how could you make use of this knowledge, if you 
really wanted to prevent his marriage with the Astrardente ? ” 
1 would advise you to go to her and state the case. You 
need mention nobody. Any one who chooses may go to Aquila 
and examine the registers. I think that you could convey the 
information to her with as much command of language as would 
be necessary.” 

I daresay I could,” she answered, between her teeth. What 
a strange chance it was that brought that register under your 
hand ! ” 

“Heaven sends opportunities,” said Del Ferice, devoutly; 
“ it is for man to make good use of them. Who knows but 
what you may make a brilliant use of this ? ” 

“ I cannot, since I am bound by my promise,” said Donna 
Tullia. 

“ No; I am sure you will not think of doing it. But then, we 
might perhaps agree that circumstances made it advisable to act. 
Many months must pass before he can think of offering himself 
to her. It will be time enough to consider the matter then — to 
consider whether we should be justified in raising such a terrible 
scandal, in causing so much unhappiness to an innocent woman 
like the Duchessa, and to a worthless man like Don Giovanni. 
Think what a disgrace it would be to the Saracinesca to have it 
made public that Giovanni was openly engaged to marry a great 
heiress while already secretly married to a peasant woman! ” 

“It would indeed be horrible,” said Donna Tullia, with a 
disagreeable look in her blue eyes. “ Perhaps we should not 
even think of it,” she added, turning over the leaves of the 
music upon the piano. Then suddenly she added, “Do you 
know that you have put me in a dreadful position by exacting 
that promise from me ?” 

“No,” said Del Ferice, quietly. “You wanted to hear the 
secret. You have heard it. You have nothing to do but to 
keep it to yourself.” 

“ That is precisely ” She checked herself, and struck a 

loud chord upon the instrument. She had turned from Del 
Ferice, and could not see the smile upon his face, which flickered 
across the pale features and vanished instantly. 

“ Think no more about it,” he said pleasantly. “It is so easy 
to forget such stories when one resolutely puts them out of 
one’s mind.” 


SARACINESCA. 


209 


Donna Tullia smiled bitterly, and was silent. She began 
playing from the sheet before her, with indifferent accuracy, but 
with more than sufficient energy. Del Ferice sat patiently by 
her side, turning over the leaves, and glancing from time to time 
at her face, which he really admired exceedingly. He belonged 
to the type of pale and somewhat phlegmatic men who frequently 
fall in love with women of sanguine complexion and robust 
appearance. Donna Tullia was a fine type of this class, and 
was called handsome, though she did not compare well with 
women of less pretension to beauty, but more delicacy and 
refinement. Del Ferice admired her greatly, however; and, as 
has been said, he admired her fortune even more. He saw him- 
self gradually approaching the goal of his intentions, and as he 
neared the desired end he grew more and more cautious. He 
had played one of his strongest cards that night, and he was 
content to wait and let matters develop quietly, without any 
more pushing from him. The seed would grow, there was no 
fear of that, and his position was strong. He could wait quietly 
for the result. 

At the end of half an hour he excused himself upon the plea 
that he was still only convalescent, and was unable to bear the 
fatigue of late hours. Donna Tullia did not press him to stay, 
for she wished to be alone; and when he was gone she sat long 
at the open piano, pondering upon what- she had done, and even 
more upon what she had escaped doing. It was a hideous 
thought that if Giovanni, in all that long winter, had asked her 
to be his wife, she would readily have consented ; it was fearful 
to think what her position would have been towards Del Ferice, 
who would have been able by a mere word to annul her marriage 
by proving the previous one at Aquila. People do not trifle 
with such accusations, and he certainly knew what he was 
doing; she would have been bound hand and foot. Or suppos- 
ing that Del Ferice had aied of the wound he received in the 
duel, and his papers had been ransacked by his heirs, whoever 
they might be — these attested documents would have become 
public property. What a narrow escape Giovanni had had! 
And she herself, too, how nearly had she been involved in his 
ruin! She liked to think that he had almost offered himself to 
her; it flattered her, although she now hated him so cordially. 
She could not help admiring Del Ferice’s wonderful discretion 
in so long concealing a piece of scandal that would have shaken 
Koman society to its foundations, and she trembled when she 
thought what would happen if she herself were ever tempted to 
reveal what she had heard. Del Ferice was certainly a man of 
genius — so quiet, and yet possessing such weapons; there waa 
some generosity about him too, or he would have revenged him- 
self for his wound by destroying Giovanni’s reputation. She 


210 


SARACIKESCA. 


considered whether she could have kept her counsel so well in 
his place. After all, as he had said, the moment for using the 
documents had not yet come, for hitherto Giovanni had never 
proposed to marry any one. Perhaps this secret wedding in 
Aquila explained his celibacy; Del Ferice had perhaps misjudged 
him in saying that he was unscrupulous; he had perhaps left 
his peasant wife, repenting of his folly, but it was perhaps on 
her account that he had never proposed to marry Donna Tullia; 
he had, then, only been amusing himself with Corona. That 
all seemed likely enough — so likely, that it heightened the cer- 
tainty of Del Ferice^s information. 

A few days later, as Giovanni had intended, news began to 
reach Koine that he had been in Florence, and was actually in 
Paris; then it was said that he was going upon a shooting 
expedition somewhere in the far north during the summer. It 
was like him, and in accordance with his tastes. He hated the 
quiet receptions at the great houses during Lent, to which, if 
he remained in Rome, he was obliged to go. He naturally es- 
caped when he could. But there was no escape for Donna 
Tullia, and after all she managed to extract some amusement 
from these gatherings. She was the acknowledged centre of 
the more noisy set, and wherever she went, people who wanted 
to be amused, and were willing to amuse each other, congre- 
gated around her. On one of these occasions she met old 
Saracinesca. He did not go out much since his son had left; 
but he seemed cheerful enough, and as he liked Madame Mayer, 
for some inscrutable reason, she rather liked him. Moreover, 
her interest in Giovanni, though now the very reverse of affec- 
tionate, made her anxious to know something of his movements. 

“ You must be lonely since Don Giovanni has gone upon his 
travels again,” she said. 

“ That is the reason I go out,” said the Prince. “ It is not 
very gay, but it is better than nothing. It suggests cold meat 
served up after the dessert; but when people are hungry, the 
order of their food is not of much importance.” 

'^Is there any news. Prince? I want to be amused.” 

^^Hews? No. The world is at peace, and consequently 
given over to sin, as it mostly is when it is resting from a fit of 
violence.” 

You seem to be inclined to moralities this evening,” said 
Donna Tullia, smiling, and gently swaying the red fan she 
always carried. 

“Am I? Then I am growing old, I suppose. It is the 
- privilege of old age to censure in others what it is no longer 
< young enough to praise in itself. It is a bad thing to grow old, 
Mt it makes people good, or makes them think they are, which 
in their own eyes is precisely the same thing.” 


SARACIKESCA. 


211 


How delightfully cynical ! 

'^Doggish?'’ inquired the Prince, with a laugh. '"I have 
heard it said by scholars, that cynical means doggish in Greek. 
The fable of the dog in the horse’s manger was invented to define 
the real cynic — the man who neither enjoys life himself nor will 
allow other people to enjoy it. I am not such a man. I hope 
you, for instance, will enjoy everything that comes in your way.” 

Even the cold meat after the dessert which you spoke of 
just now?” asked Donna Tullia. “Thank you — I will try; 
perhaps you can help me.” 

“ My son despised it,” said Saracinesca. “ He is gone in 
search of fresh pastures of sweets.” 

“ Leaving you behind.” 

“ Somebody once said that the wisest thing a son could do 
was to get rid of his father as soon as possible ” 

“Then Don Giovanni is a wise man,” returned Donna Tullia. 

“ Perhaps. However, he asked me to accompany him.” 

“ You refused ? ” 

“ Of course. Such expeditions are good enough for boys. I 
dislike Florence, I am not especially fond of Paris, aud I detest 
the North Pole. I suppose you have seen from the papers 
that he is going in that direction ? It is like him, he hankers 
after originality, I suppose. Being born in the south, he 
naturally goes to the extreme north.” 

“ He will write you very interesting letters, I should think,” 
remarked Donna Tullia. “ Is he a good correspondent ? ” 

“ Eemarkably, for he never gives one any trouble. He sends 
his address from time to time, and draws frequently on his 
banker. His letters are not so full of interest as might be 
thought, as they rarely extend over five lines; but on the other 
hand it does not take long to read them, which is a blessing.” 

“You seem to be an affectionate parent,” said Donna Tullia, 
with a laugh. 

“ If you measure affection by the cost of postage-stamps, you 
have a right to be sarcastic. If you measure it in any other 
way, you are wrong. I could not help loving any one so like 
myself as my son. It would show a detestable lack of appreci- 
ation of my own gifts.” 

“ I do not think Don Giovanni so very like you,” said Donna 
Tullia, thoughtfully. 

“ Perhaps you do not know him so well as I do,” remarked 
the Prince. “ Where do you see the greatest difference ? ” 

“I think you talk better, and I think you are more — not 
exactly more honest, perhaps, but more straightforward.” 

“I do not agree with you,” said old Saracinesca, quickly. 
“ There is no one alive who can say they ever knew Giovanni 
approach in the most innocent way to a distortion of truth. I 


212 


SARACINESOA. 


daresay you have discovered, however, that he is reticent; he 
can hold his tongue; he is no chatterer, no parrot, my son/^ 

‘‘ Indeed he is not,” answered Donna Tullia, and the reply 
pacified the old man; but she herself was thinking what su- 
preme reticence Giovanni had shown in the matter of his mar- 
riage, and she wondered whether the Prince had ever heard of 
it. 


CHAPTEK XXII. 

Anastase Gouache worked hard at the CardinaPs portrait, and 
at the same time did his best to satisfy Donna Tullia. The 
latter, indeed, was not easily pleased, and Gouache found it 
hard to instil into his representation of her the precise amount 
of poetry she required, without doing violence to his own artis- 
tic sense of fitness. But the other picture progressed rapidly. 
The Cardinal was a restless man, and after the first two or 
three sittings, desired nothing so much as to be done with them 
altogether. Anastase amused him, it is true, and the statesman 
soon perceived that he had made a conquest of the young man^s 
mind, and that, as Giovanni Saracinesca had predicted, he had 
helped Gouache to come to a decision. He was not prepared, 
however, for the practical turn that decision immediately took, 
and he was just beginning to wish the sittings at an end when 
Anastase surprised him by a very startling announcement. 

As usual, they were in the Cardinal’s study; the statesman 
was silent and thoughtful, and Gouache was working with all 
his might. 

I have made up my mind,” said the latter, suddenly. 

Concerning what, my friend?” inquired the great man, 
rather absently. 

“ Concerning everything. Eminence,” answered Gouache — 

concerning politics, religion, life, death, and everything else 
which belongs to my career. I am going to enlist with the 
Zouaves.” 

The Cardinal looked at him for a moment, and then broke 
into a low laugh. 

Extremis malls extrema remedia ! ” he exclaimed. 

Precisely — aux grands maux les grands remedeSy as we say. 
I am going to join the Church militant. I am convinced that 
it is the best thing an honest man can do. I like fighting, and 
I like the Church — therefore I will fight for the Church.” 

“ Very good logic, indeed,” answered the Cardinal. But he 
looked at Anastase, and marking his delicate features and light 
frame, he almost wondered how the lad would look in the garb 
of a soldier. Very good logic; but, my dear Monsieur Gou- 
ache, what is to become of your art ? ” 


SARACINESCA. 


213 


I shall not be mounting guard all day, and the Zouaves are 
allowed to live in their own lodgings. I will live in my studio, 
and paint when I am not mounting guard.” 

‘‘And my portrait?” inquired Cardinal Antonelli, much 
amused. 

“ Your Eminence will doubtless be kind enough to manage 
that I may have liberty to finish it.” 

“ You could not put off enlisting for a week, I suppose?” 

Gouache looked annoyed ; he hated the idea of waiting. 

“ I have taken too long to make up my mind already,” he 
replied. “ I must make the plunge at once. I am convinced 
— your Eminence has convinced me— that I have been very 
foolish.” 

“ I certainly never intended to convince you of that,” re- 
marked the Cardinal, with a smile. 

“ Very foolish,” repeated Gouache, not heeding the interrup- 
tion. “ I have talked great nonsense, — I scarcely know why — 
perhaps to try and find where the sense really lay. I have 
dreamed so many dreams, so long, that I sometimes think I am 
morbid. All artists are morbid, I suppose. It is better to do 
anything active than to lose one^s self in the slums of a sickly 
imagination.” 

“I agree with you,” answered the Cardinal; “but I do not 
think you suffered from a sickly imagination, — I should rather 
call it abundant than sickly. Frankly, I should be sorry to 
think that in following this new idea you were in any way in- 
juring the great career which, I am sure, is before you; but, on 
the other hand, I cannot help wishing that a greater number of 
young men would follow your example.” 

“ Your Eminence approves, then ? ” 

“ Do you think you will make a good soldier ? ” 

“ Other artists have been good soldiers. There was Cel- 
lini ” 

“ Benvenuto Cellini said he made a good soldier; he said it 
himself, but his reputation for veracity in other matters was 
doubtful, to say the least. If he did not shoot the Connetable 
de Bourbon, it is very certain that some one else did. Besides, 
a soldier in our times should be a very different kind of man 
from the self-armed citizen of the time of Clement the Eighth 
and the aforesaid Connetable. You will have to wear a uni- 
form and sleep on boards in a guard-house; you will have to 
be up early to drill, and up late mounting guard, in wind and 
rain and cold. It is hard work; I do not believe you have the 
constitution for it. Nevertheless, the intention is good. You 
can try it, and if you fall ill I will see that you have no diffi- 
culty in returning to your artist life.” 

“ I do not mean to give it up,” replied Gouache, in a tone 


214 


SARACINESCA. 


of conviction. And as for my health, I am as strong as any 
one.'’’ 

Perhaps,” said the Cardinal, doubtfully. And when are 
you going to join the corps ? ” 

In about an hour,” said Gouache, quietly. 

And he kept his word. But he had told no one, save the 
Cardinal, of his intention; and for a day or two, though he 
passed many acquaintances in the street, no one recognised 
Anastase Gouache in the handsome young soldier with his 
grey Turco uniform, a red sash round his slender waist, and a 
small M'pi set jauntily upon one side. 

It was one of the phenomena of those times. Foreigners 
swarmed in Rome, and many of them joined the cosmopolitan 
corps — gentlemen, noblemen, artists, men of the learned pro- 
fessions, adventurers, duellists driven from their country in a 
temporary exile, enthusiasts, strolling Irishmen, men of all 
sorts and conditions. But, take them all in all, they were a 
fine set of fellows, who set no value whatever on their lives, 
and who, as a whole, fought for an idea, in the old crusading 
spirit. There were many who, like Gouache, joined solely 
from conviction; and there were few instances indeed of any 
who, having joined, deserted. It often happened that a 
stranger came to Rome for a mere visit, and at the end of 
a month surprised his friends by appearing in the grey 
uniform. You had met him the night before at a ball in 
the ordinary garb of civilisation, covered with cotillon favours, 
waltzing like a madman; the next morning he entered the Cafe 
de Rome in a braided jacket open at the throat, and told you 
he was a soldier — a private soldier, who touched his cap to 
every corporal of the French infantry, and was liable to be 
locked up for twenty-four hours if he was late to quarters. 

Donna Tullia’s portrait was not quite finished, and Gouache 
had asked for one or two more sittings. Three days after the 
artist had taken his great resolution, Madame Mayer and Del 
Ferice entered his studio. He had had no difficulty in being 
at liberty at the hour of the sitting, and had merely exchanged 
his jacket for an old painting-coat, not taking the trouble to 
divest himself of the remainder of his uniform. 

Where have you been all this time ? ” asked Donna Tullia, 
as she lifted the curtain and entered the studio. He had kept 
out of her way during the past few days. 

Good heavens. Gouache! ” cried Del Ferice, starting back, 
as he caught sight of the artist’s grey trousers and yellow 
gaiters. “ What is the meaning of this comedy ? ” 

What ? ” asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at his legs, 
he answered, Oh, nothing. I have turned Zouave — that is all. 
Will you sit down, Donna Tullia ? I was waiting for you.” 


SAEACINESCA. 


215 


Turned Zouave ! exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del Fe- 
rice in a breath. Turned Zouave ! 

‘^Well?^^ said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and enjoying 
their surprise. Well — why not ? 

Del Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand upon 
Donna Tullia^s arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear — 

“ Siamo traditi — we are betrayed ! he said. Whereupon 
Donna Tullia turned a little pale. 

Betrayed ! ” she repeated, “ and by Gouache ! ” 

Gouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old carved 
chair on which Madame Mayer was accustomed to sit when he 
painted. 

Calm yourself, Madame,” he said. I have not the least 
intention of betraying you. I have made a counter-revolution 
— but I am perfectly frank. I will not tell of the ferocious 
deeds I have heard discussed.” 

Del Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, partly in 
earnest. It lay in his schemes to make Donna Tullia believe 
herself involved in a genuine plot, and from this point of view 
he felt that he must pretend the greatest horror and surprise. 
On the other hand, he knew that Gouache had been painting 
the Cardinahs portrait, and guessed that the statesman had 
acquired a strong infiuence over the artist’s mind — an influence 
which was already showing itself in a way that looked danger- 
ous. It had never struck him until quite lately that Anastase, 
a republican by descent and conviction, could suddenly step 
into the reactionary camp. 

Pardon me, Donna Tullia,” said Dgo, in serious tones, 
pardon me — but I think we should do well to leave Monsieur 
Gouache to the contemplation of his new career. This is no 
place for us — the company of traitors ” 

Look here, Del Ferice,” said Gouache, suddenly going up 
to him and looking him in the face, — do you seriously believe 
that anything you have ever said in this room is worth betray- 
ing ? or, if you do, do you really think that I would betray it ? ” 

Bah ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, it is non- 
sense! Gouache is a gentleman, of course — and besides, I mean 
to have my portrait, politics or no politics.” 

With this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and Del 
Ferice had no choice but to follow her example. He was pro- 
foundly disgusted, but he saw at a glance that it would be 
hopeless to attempt to dissuade Madame Mayer when she had 
once made up her mind. 

“ And now you can tell us all about it,” said Donna TulMa. 
“ What, in the name of all that is senseless, has induced you to 
join the Zouaves ? It really makes me very nervous to see you.” 

That lends poetry to your expression,” interrupted Gouache. 


216 


SARACINESCA. 


I wish yon were always nervous. You really want to know 
why I am a Zouave ? It is very simple. You must know that 
I always follow my impulses.” 

Impulses ! ” ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily. 

** Yes; because my impulses are always good, — whereas when 
I reflect much, my judgment is always bad. I felt a strong 
impulse to wear the gi’ey uniform, so I walked into the recruit- 
ing office and wrote my name down.” 

“ I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio. Mon- 
sieur Gouache,” said Donna Tullia, with a rather nervous laugh. 

“ Then allow me to tell you that, whereas my impulses are 
good, yours are not,” replied Anastase, quietly painting. ‘‘ Be- 
cause I have a new dress ” 

‘‘And new convictions,” interrupted Del Ferice; “you who 
were always arguing about convictions! ” 

“I had none; that is the reason I argued about them. I 
have plenty now — I argue no longer.” 

“You are wise,” retorted Ugo. “Those you have got will 
never bear discussion.” 

“ Excuse me,” answered Gouache; “if you will take the trouble 
to be introduced to his Eminence Cardinal Antonelli ” 

Donna Tullia held up her hands in horror. 

“ That horrible man! That Mephistopheles ! ” she cried. 

“ That Macchiavelli ! That arch-enemy of our holy Liberty! ” 
exclaimed Del Ferice, in theatrical tones. 

“ Exactly,” answered Gouache. “ If he could be induced to 
devote a quarter of an hour of his valuable time to talking with 
you, he would turn your convictions round his finger.” 

“ This is too much ! ” cried Del Ferice, angrily. 

“ I think it is very amusing,” said Donna Tullia. “ What a pity 
that all Liberals are not artists, whom his Eminence could engage 
to paint his portrait and be converted at so much an hour! ” 

Gouache smiled quietly, and went on with his work. 

“ So he told you to go and turn Zouave,” remarked Donna 
Tullia, after a pause, “ and you submitted like a lamb.” 

“ So far was the Cardinal from advising me to turn soldier, 
that he expressed the greatest surprise when I told him of my 
intention,” returned Gouache, rather coldly. 

“ Indeed it is enough to take away even a cardinaFs breath,” 
answered Madame Mayer. “ I was never, never so surprised in 
my life ! ” 

Gouache stood up to get a view of his work, and Donna 
Tullia looked at him critically. 

“ IHens ! ” she exclaimed, “ it is rather becoming — what 
small ankles you have. Gouache ! ” 

Anastase laughed. It was impossible to be grave in the face 
of such utterly frivolous inconsistency. 


SARACIHESCA. 


317 


‘‘ You will allow your expression to change so often, Donna 
Tullia! It is impossible to catch it/^ 

Like your conyictions,” murmured Del Ferice from his 
corner. Indeed Ugo did not know what to make of the scene. 
He had miscalculated the strength of Donna Tullia's fears as 
compared with her longing to possess a flattering portrait of 
herself. Rather than leave the picture unfinished, she exhibited 
a cynical indifference to danger which would have done honour 
to a better man than Del Ferice. Perhaps, too, she understood 
Gouache well enough to know that he might be trusted. In- 
deed any one would have trusted Gouache. Even Del Ferice 
was less disturbed at the possibility of the artist’s repeating any 
of the trivial liberal talk which he had listened to, than at the 
indifference to discovery shown by Donna Tullia. To Del 
Ferice, the whole thing had been but a harmless play; but he 
wanted Madame Mayer to believe that it had all been in solemn 
earnest, and that she was really implicated in a dangerous plot ; 
for it gave him a stronger hold upon her for his own ends. 

"So you are going to fight for Pio Nono,” remarked Ugo, 
scornfully, after another pause. 

"I am,^^ replied Gouache. "And, no offence to you, my 
friend, if I meet you in a red shirt among the Garibaldini, I 
will kill you. It would be very unpleasant, so I hope that you 
will not Join them.” 

"Take care, Del Ferice,” laughed Donna Tullia; "your life 
is in danger! You had better join the Zouaves instead.” 

" I cannot paint his Eminence's portrait,” returned Ugo, 
with a sneer, " so there is no chance of that.” 

"You might assist him with wholesome advice, I should 
think,” answered Gouache. " I have no doubt you could tell 
him much that would be very useful.” 

" And turn traitor to ” 

" Hush 1 Do not be so silly, Del Ferice,” interrupted Donna 
Tullia, who began to fear that Del Ferice^s taunts would make 
trouble. She had a secret conviction that it would not be good 
to push the gentle Anastase too far. He was too quiet, too deter- 
mined, and too serious not to be a little dangerous if roused. 

" Do not be absurd,” she repeated. " Whatever Gouache 
may choose to do, he is a gentleman, and I will not have you 
talk of traitors like that. He does not quarrel with you — why 
do you try to quarrel with him? ” 

“I think he has done quite enough to Justify a quarrel, I am 
sure,” replied Del Ferice, moodily. 

" My dear sir,” said Gouache, desisting from his work and 
turning towards Ugo, " Madame is quite right. I not only do 
not quarrel, but I refuse to be quarrelled with. You have my 
most solemn assurance that whatever has previously passed 


218 


SARACINESCA. 


here, whatever I have heard said by you, by Donna Tiillia, by 
Valdarno, by any of your friends, I regard as an inviolable 
secret. You formerly said I had no convictions, and you were 
right. I had none, and I listened to your exposition of your 
own with considerable interest. My case is changed. I need 
not tell you what I believe, for I wear the uniform of a Papal 
Zouave. When I put it on, I certainly did not contemplate 
offending you ; I do not wish to offend you now — I only beg 
that you will refrain from offending me. For my part, I need 
only say that henceforth I do not desire to take a part in your 
councils. If Donna Tullia is satisfied with her portrait, there 
need be no further occasion for our meeting. If, on the con- 
trary, we are to meet again, I beg that we may meet on a foot- 
ing of courtesy and mutual respect.” 

It was impossible to say more; and Gouache’s speech termi- 
nated the situation so far as Del Ferice was concerned. Donna 
Tullia smilingly expressed her approval. 

‘‘Quite right. Gouache,” she said. “ You know it would be 
impossible to leave the portrait as it is now. The mouth, you 
know — you promised to do something to it — just the expres- 
sion, you know.” 

Gouache bowed his head a little, and set to work again with- 
out a word. Del Ferice did not speak again during the sitting, 
but sat moodily staring at the canvas, at Donna Tullia, and at 
the floor. It was not often that he was moved from his 
habitual suavity of manner, but Gouache’s conduct had made 
him feel particularly uncomfortable. 

The next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought her 
old Countess, and Del Ferice did not appear. The portrait 
was ultimately finished to the satisfaction of all parties, and 
was hung in Donna Tullia’s drawing-room, to be admired and 
criticised by all her friends. But Gouache rejoiced when the 
thing was finally removed from his studio, for he had grown to 
hate it, and had been almost willing to flatter it out of all like- 
ness to Madame Mayer, for the sake of not being eternally 
confronted by the cold stare of her blue eyes. He finished the 
Cardinal’s portrait too; and the statesman not only paid for it 
with unusual liberality, but gave the artist what he called a 
little memento of the long hours they had spent together. He 
opened one of the lockers in his study, and from a small drawer 
selected an ancient ring, in which was set a piece of crystal 
with a delicate intaglio of a figure of Victory. He took Gou- 
ache’s hand and slipped the ring upon his finger. He had 
taken a singular liking to Anastase. 

“ Wear it as a little souvenir of me,” he said kindly. “ It is 
a Victory; you are a soldier now, so I pray that victory may go 
with you; and I give Victory herself into your hands.” 


SARACINESCA. 


219 


''And 1 ,” said Gouache, "will pray that it may be a symbol 
in my hand of the real victories you are to win/^ - 

"Only a symbol,” returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully. 
"Nothing but a symbol. I was not born to conquer, but to 
lead a forlorn-hope — to deceive vanquished men with a hope 
not real, and to deceive the victors with an unreal fear. Never- 
theless, my friend,” he added, grasping Gouache’s hand, and 
fixing upon him his small bright eyes, — " nevertheless, let us 
fight, fight — fight to the very end ! ” 

"We will fight to the end. Eminence,” said Gouache. He 
was only a private of Zouaves, and the man whose hand he held 
was great and powerful; but the same spirit was in the hearts 
of both, the same courage, the same devotion to the failing 
cause — and both kept their words, each in his own way. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 

Astrardente was in some respects a picturesque place. The 
position of the little town gave it a view in both directions 
from where it stood ; for it was built upon a precipitous emi- 
nence rising suddenly out of the midst of the narrow strip of 
fertile land, the long and rising valley which, from its lower 
extremity, conducted by many circuits to the Koman Campagna, 
and which ended above in the first rough passes of the lower 
Abruzzi. The base of the town extended into the vineyards 
and olive-orchards which surrounded the little hill on all sides; 
and the summit of it was crowned by the fe'udal palace-castle — 
an enormous building of solid stone, in the style of the fifteenth 
century. Upon the same spot had formerly stood a rugged 
fortress, but the magnificent ideas of the Astrardente pope had 
not tolerated such remains of barbarism; the ancient strong- 
hold had been torn down, and on its foundations rose a gigantic 
mansion, consisting of a main palace, with great balconies and 
columned front, overlooking the town, and of two massive 
wings leading back like towers to the edge of the precipitous 
rock to northwards. Between these wings a great paved court 
formed a sort of terrace, open upon one side, and ornamented 
within with a few antique statues dug up upon the estates, and 
with numerous plants, which the old duke had caused to be 
carefully cultivated in vases, and which were only exposed 
upon the terrace during the warm summer months. The view 
from the court was to the north — that is to say, down the 
valley, comprehending ranges of hills that seemed to cross and 
recross into the extreme distance, their outlines being each 
time less clearly defined, as the masses in each succeeding 
range took a softer purple hue. 

Within, the palace presented a great variety of apartments. 


220 


SARACINESCA. 


There were suites of vaulted rooms upon the lower floor, 
frescoed in the good manner of the fifteenth century; there 
were other suites above, hung with ancient tapestry and fur- 
nished with old-fashioned marble tables, and mirrors in heavily 
gilt frames, and one entire wing had been lately fitted up in 
the modern style. In this part of the house Corona established 
herself with Sister Gabrielle, and began to lead a life of regular 
occupations and profound retirement, which seemed to be 
rather a continuation of her existence in the convent where she 
had been educated as a girl, than to form any part in the life 
of the superb Duchessa d’Astrardente, who for five years had 
been one of the most conspicuous persons in society. Every 
morning at eight o’clock the two ladies, always clad in deep 
black, attended the Mass which was celebrated for them in the 
palace chapel. Then Corona walked for an hour with her 
companion upon the terrace, or, if it rained, beneath the 
covered balconies upon the south side. The morning hours 
she passed in solitude, reading such books of devotion and 
serious matter as most suited the sad temper of her mind; pre- 
cisely at mid-day she and Sister Gabrielle breakfasted together 
in a sort of solemn state; and at three o’clock the great landau, 
with its black horses and mourning liveries, stood under the 
inner gate. The two ladies appeared five minutes later, and 
by a gesture Corona indicated whether she would be driven up 
or down the valley. The dashing equipage descended the long 
smooth road that wound through the town, and returned 
invariably at the end of two hours, again ascended the tortu- 
ous way, and disappeared beneath the dark entrance. At six 
o’clock dinner was served, with the same solemn state as 
attended the morning meal; Corona and Sister Gabrielle re- 
mained together until ten, and the day was over. There was 
no more variation in the routine of their lives than if they had 
been moved by a machinery connected with the great castle 
clock overhead, which chimed the hours and the quarters by 
day and night, and regulated the doings of the town below. 

But in spite of this unchanging sequence of similar habit, 
the time passed pleasantly for Corona. She had had too much 
of the brilliant lights and the buzzing din of society for the 
last five years, too much noise, too much idle talk, too much 
aimless movement; she needed rest, too, from the constant 
strain of her elforts to fulfil her self-imposed duties towards 
her husband — most of all, perhaps, she required a respite from 
the sufferings she had undergone through her stifled love for 
Giovanni Saracinesca. All this she found in the magnificent 
calm of the life at Astrardente. She meditated long upon the 
memory of her husband, recalling lovingly those things which 
had been most worthy in him, willingly forgetting his many 


SARACIKESCA. 


221 


follies and vanities and moments of petulance. She went over 
in her mind the many and varied scenes of the past, and 
learned to love the sweet and silent solitude of the present by 
comparison of it with all the useless and noisy activity of the 
world she had for a time abandoned. She had not expected to 
find anything more than a passive companion in Sister Gabri- 
elle; but in the course of their daily converse she discovered in 
her a character of extreme refinement and quick perception, 
a depth of human sympathy and a breadth of experience which 
amazed her, and made her own views of things seem small. 
The Sister was devout and rigid in the observance of the insti- 
tutions of her order, in so far as she was able to follow out 
the detail of religious regulation without interfering with the 
convenience of her companion; but in her conversation she 
showed an intimate knowledge of character which was a con- 
stant source of pleasure to Corona, who told the Sister long 
stories of people she had known for the sake of hearing her 
admirable comments upon social questions. 

But besides her reading and her long hours of meditation 
and her talks with Sister Gabrielle, Corona found occupation 
in the state of the town below her residence. She attempted 
once or twice to visit the poor cottages, in the hope of doing 
some good ; but she found that she was such an object of holy 
awe to the inmates that they were speechless in her presence, 
or became so nervous in their desire to answer her questions, 
that the information she was able to obtain concerning their 
troubles was too vague to be of any use. 

The Italian peasant is not the same in all parts of the coun- 
try, as is generally supposed ; and although the Tuscan, who is 
constantly brought into familiar contact with his landlord, and 
acquires a certain pleasant faith in him, grows eloquent upon 
the conditions of his being, the same is not true of the rougher 
race that labours in the valleys of the Sabine and the Samnite 
hills. The peasant of the Agro Komano is indeed capable of 
civilisation, and he is able to understand his superiors, provided 
that he is gradually accustomed to seeing them : unfortunately 
this occurs but rarely. Many of the great Eoman landholders 
spend a couple of months of every year upon their estates : old 
Astrardente had in his later years gone to considerable expense 
in refitting and repairing the castle, but he had done little 
for the town. Men like the Saracinesca, however, were great 
exceptions at that time; though they travelled much abroad, 
they often remained for many months in their rugged old for- 
tress. They knew the inhabitants of their lands far and wide, 
and were themselves not only known but loved ; they spent 
their money in improving the condition of their peasants, in 
increasing the area of their forests, and in fostering the fer- 


222 


SARACIKESCA. 


tility of the soil, but they cared nothing for adorning the grey 
stone walls of their ancestors’ stronghold. It had done well 
enough for a thousand years, it would do well enough still; it 
had stood firm against fierce sieges in the dark ages of the 
Koman baronry, it could afford to stand unchanged in its 
monumental strength against the advancing sea of nineteenth- 
century civilisation. They themselves, father and son, were 
content with such practical improvements as they could intro- 
duce for the good of their people and the enriching of their 
land; a manly race, despising luxury, they cared little whether 
) their home was thought comfortable by the few guests they 
occasionally invited to spend a week with them. They saw 
much of the peasantry, and went daily among them, under- 
I standing their wants, and wisely promoting in their minds the 
f belief that land cannot prosper unless both landlord and tenant 
s do their share. 

L But Astrardente was a holding of a very different kind, and 
Corona, in her first attempts at understanding the state of 
things, found herself stopped by a dead wall of silence, beyond 
which she guessed that there lay an undiscovered land of 
trouble. She knew next to nothing of the condition of her 
people; she only imperfectly understood the relations in which 
they actually stood to herself, the extent of her power over 
^ them, and of their power over her. The mysteries of emphy- 
teusis, emphyteuma, and emphyteuta were still hidden to her, 
though her steward spoke of them with surprising loquacity 
and fluency. She laboured hard to understand the system 
upon which her tenants held their lands from her, and it was 
some time before she succeeded. It is easier to explain the 
matter at once than to follow Corona in her attempts to com- 
prehend it. 

To judge from the terms employed, the system of holdings 
common in the Pontifical States has descended without inter- 
ruption from the time of the Eomans to the present day. As 
in old Koman law, emphyteusis, now spelt emfiteuse, means the 
possession of rights over another person’s land, capable of 
transmission by inheritance; and to-day^ as under the Romans, 
the holder of such rights is called the emyhyteuta, or emfiteuta. 
How the Romans came to use Greek words in their tenant-law 
does not belong to the matter in hand; these words are the 
only ones now in use in this part of Italy, and they are used 
precisely as they were in remote times. 

A tenant may acquire rights of emfiteuse directly from the 
owner of the land, like an ordinary lease; or he may acquire 
them by settlement—'' squatting,” as the popular term is. 
Wherever land is lying waste, any one may establish himself 
upon it and cultivate it, on condition of paying to the owner a 


SARACIN'ESCA. 


223 


certain proportion of the yield of the land — generally one 
quarter — either in kind or in money. The landlord may, 
indeed, refuse the right of settlement in the first instance, 
which would very rarely occur, since most people who own 
barren tracts of rock and heath are only too glad to promote 
any kind of cultivation. But when the landlord has once 
allowed the right, the right itself is constituted thereby into a 
possession of which the peasant may dispose as he pleases, even 
by selling it to another. The law provides, however, that in 
case of transfers by sale, the landlord shall receive one yearns 
rent in kind or in money in addition to the rent due, and this 
bonus is paid jointly by the buyer and the seller according to 
agreement. Such holdings are inherited from father to son 
for many generations, and are considered to be perpetual leases. 
The landlord cannot expel a tenant except for non-payment of 
rent during three consecutive years. In actual fact, the right 
of the emfiteuta in the soil is far more important than that of 
the landlord; for the tenant can cheat his landlord as much 
as he pleases, whereas the injustice of the law provides that 
under no circumstances whatsoever shall the landlord cheat 
the tenant. In actual fact, also, the rents are universally paid 
in kind, and the peasant eats what remains of the produce, so 
that very little cash is seen in the land. 

Corona discovered that the income she enjoyed from the 
lands of Astrardente was collected by the basketful from the 
threshing-floors, and by the barrel from the vineyards of some 
two hundred tenants. It was a serious matter to gather from 
two hundred threshing-floors precisely a quarter of the grain 
threshed, and from fifty or sixty vineyards precisely a quarter 
of the wine made in each. The peasants all made their wine 
at the same time, and all threshed their grain in the same week. 
If the agent was not on the spot during the threshing and the 
vintage, the peasant had no difficulty whatever in hiding a large 
quantity of his produce. As the rent was never fixed, but de- 
pended solely on the yield of the year, it was pre-eminently to 
the advantage of the tenant to throw dust in the eyes of the 
landlord whenever he got a chance. The landlord found the 
business of watching his tenants tedious and unprofitable, and 
naturally resorted to the crowning evil of agricultural evils — 
the employment of a rent-farmer. The latter, at all events, 
was willing to pay a fixed sum yearly; and if the sum paid was 
generally considerably below the real value of the rents, the 
arrangement at least assured a fixed income to the landlord, 
with the certainty of getting it without trouble to himself. 
The middleman then proceeded to grind the tenants at his 
leisure and discretion in order to make the best of his bargain. 
The result was, that while the tenant starved and the landlord 


224 


SARACIKESCA. 


got less than his due in consideration of being saved from an- 
noyance, the middleman gradually accumulated money. 

Upon this system nine-tenths of the land in the Pontifical 
States was held, and much of the same land is so held to-day, 
in spite of the modern tenant-law, for reasons which will be 
clearly explained in another part of this history. Corona saw 
and understood that the evil was very great. She discussed 
the matter with her steward, or ministro as he was called, who 
was none other than the aforesaid middleman; and the more 
she di^fcussed the question, the more hopeless the question ap- 
peared. The steward held a contract from her dead husband 
for a number of years. He had regularly paid the yearly sums 
agreed upon, and it would he impossible to remove him for 
several years to come. He, of course, was strenuously opposed 
to any change, and did his best to make himself appear as an 
angel of mercy and justice, presiding over a happy family of 
rejoicing peasants in the heart of a terrestrial paradise. Un- 
fortunately for himself, however, he had not at first understood 
the motive which prompted Coronals inquiries. He supposed 
in the beginning that she was not satisfied with the amount of 
rent he paid, and that at the expiration of his contract she in- 
tended to raise the sum; so that, on the first occasion when she 
sent for him, he had drawn a piteous picture of the peasants 
condition, and had expatiated with eloquence on his own po- 
verty, and on the extreme difficulty of collecting any rents at 
all. It was not until he discovered that Coronals chief preoc- 
cupation was for the welfare of her tenants that he changed his 
tactics, and endeavoured to prove that all was for the best upon 
the best of all possible estates. 

Then, to his great astonishment. Corona informed him that 
his contract would not be renewed, and that at the expiration 
of his term she would collect her rents herself. It had taken 
her long to understand the situation, hut when she had com- 
prehended it, she made up her mind that something must be 
done. If her fortune had depended solely upon the income 
she received from the Astrardente lands, she would have made 
up her mind to reduce herself to penury rather than allow 
things to go in the way they were going. Fortunately she was 
rich, and if she had not all the experience necessary to deal 
with such matters, she had plenty of goodwill, plenty of gene- 
rosity, and plenty of money. In her simple theory of agrarian 
economy the best way to improve an estate seemed to be to 
spend the income arising from it directly upon its improve- 
ment, until she could take the whole management of it into her 
own hands. The trouble, as she thought, was that there was 
too little money among the peasants; the best way to help 
them was to put money within their reach. The only question 


SARACINESCA. 


225 


was how to do this without demoralising them, and without 
increasing their liabilities towards the ministro or middleman. 

Then she sent for the curate. From him she learned that 
the people did well enough in the summer, but that the winter 
was dreaded. She asked why. He answered that they were 
not provident ; that the land system was bad ; and that even if 
they^ saved anything the ministro would take it from them. 
She inquired whether he thought it possible to induce them to 
be more thrifty. He thought it might be done in ten years, but 
not in one. 

In that case,” said Corona, “ the only way to improve their 
condition is to give them work in the winter. I will make 
roads through the estate, and build large dwelling-houses in 
the town. There shall be work enough for everybody.” 

It was a simple plan, but it was destined to be carried into 
execution, and to change the face of the Astrardente domain in 
a few years. Corona sent to Rome for an engineer who was 
also a good architect, and she set herself to study the possibili- 
ties of the place, giving the man sufficient scope, and only in- 
sisting that there should be no labour and no material imported 
from beyond the limits of her lands. This provided her with 
an occupation whereby the time passed quickly enough. 

The Lenten season ended, and Eastertide ran swiftly on to 
Pentecost. The early fruit-trees blossomed white, and the 
flowers fell in a snow-shower to the ground, to give place to 
the cherries and the almonds and the pears. The brown bram- 
ble-hedges turned leafy, and were alive with little birds; and 
the great green lizards shot across the woodland paths upon the 
hillside, and caught the flies that buzzed noisily in the spring 
sunshine. The dried-up vines put forth tiny leaves, and the 
maize shot suddenly up to the sun out of the rich furrows, like 
myriads of brilliant green poignards piercing the brown skin of 
the earth. By the roadside the grass grew high, and the broad 
shallow brooks shrank to narrow rivulets, and disappeared in 
the overgrowing rushes before the increasing heat of the climb- 
ing sun. 

Corona’s daily round of life never changed, but as the months 
wore on, a stealing thought came often and often again — shy, 
as though fearing to be driven away; silent at flrst, as a shadow 
in a dream, but taking form and reality from familiarity with 
its oAvn self, and speaking intelligible words, saying at last 
plainly, “ Will he keep his promise ? Will he never come ? ” 

But he came not as the fresh colours of spring deepened with 
the rich maturity of summer; and Corona, gazing down the 
valley, saw the change that came over the fair earth, and half 
guessed the change that was coming over her own life. She 
had sought solitude instinctively, but she had not known what 


226 


SAKACINESCA. 


it would bring her. She had desired to honour her dead hus- 
band by withdrawing from the world for a time and thinking 
of him and remembering him. She had done so, but the youth 
in her rebelled at last against the constant memory of old age 
— of an old age, too, which had passed away from her and was 
dead for ever. It was right to dwell for a time upon the 
thought of her widowhood, but the voice said it would not be 
always right. The calm and noiseless tide of the old man^s 
ceasing life had ebbed slowly and reluctantly from her shore, 
and she had followed the sad sea in her sorrow to the furthest 
verge of its retreat; but as she stood upon the edge of the stag- 
nant waters, gazing far out and trying to follow even further 
the slow subsiding ooze, the tide had turned upon her una- 
wares, the fresh seaward breeze sprang up and broke the dead 
calm with the fresh motion of crisp ripples that once more 
flowed gladly over the dreary sand, and the waters of life 
plashed again and laughed gladly together around her feet. 

The thought of Giovanni — the one thought that again and 
again kept recurring in her mind — grew very sweet, — as sweet 
as it had once been bitter. There was nothing to stop its 
growth now, and she let it have its way. What did it mat- 
ter, so long as he did not come near her — for the present ? 
Some day he would come; she wondered when, and how long 
he would keep his promise. But meanwhile she was not un- 
happy, and she went about her occupations as before; only 
sometimes she would go alone at evening to the balcony that 
faced the higher mountains, and there she would stand for half 
an hour gazing southward towards the precipitous rocks that 
caught the red glare of the sinking sun, and she asked herself 
if he were there, or whether, as report had told her, he were in 
the far north. It was but half a day^s ride over the hills, he 
had said. But strain her sight as she would, she could not 
pierce the heavy crags nor see into the wooded delis beyond. 
He had said he would pass the summer there; had he changed 
his mind ? 

But she was not unhappy. There was that in her which for- 
bade unhappiness, which would have broken out into great joy 
if she would have let it; but yet she would not. It was too 
soon yet to say aloud what she said in her heart daily, that she 
loved Giovanni with a great love, and that she knew she was 
free to love him. In that thought there was enough of joy. 
But he might come if he would; her anger would not be great 
if he broke his promise now, he had kept it so long — six whole 
months. But by-and-by, as the days passed, the first note of 
happiness was marred by the discordant ring of a distant fear. 
What if she had too effectually forbidden him to see her? 
What if he had gone out disappointed of all hope, and was 


SARACIKESCA. 


227 


really in distant Scandinavia, as the papers said, risking his life 
in mad adventures ? 

But after all, that was not what she feared. He was strong, 
young, brave — he had survived a thousand dangers, he would 
survive these also. There arose between her and the thought 
of him an evil shadow, the image of a woman, and it took the 
shape of Donna Tullia so vividly that she could see the red lips 
move and almost hear the noisy laugh. She was angry with 
herself at the idea, but it recurred continually and gave her 
pain, and the pain grew to an intolerable fear. She began to 
feel that she must know where he was, at any cost, or she could 
have no peace. She was restless and nervous, and began to be 
absent-minded in her conversation with Sister Gabrielle. The 
good woman saw it, and advised a little change — anything, an 
excursion of a day for instance. Corona, she said, was too 
young to lead this life. 

Her mind leaped at the idea. It was but half a day^s ride, 
he had said; she would climb those hills and look down upon 
Saracinesca — only once. She might perhaps meet some peasant, 
and by a careless inquiry she would learn whether he was there 
— or would be there in the summer. No one would know; 
and besides. Sister Gabrielle had said that an excursion would 
do Corona good. Sister Gabrielle had probably never heard 
that Saracinesca was so near, and she certainly would not guess 
that the Duchessa had any interest in its lord. She announced 
her intention, and the Sister approved — she herself, she said, 
was too weak to undergo the fatigue. 

On the following morning. Corona alone entered her carriage 
and was driven many miles up the southward hills, till the road 
was joined by a broad bridle-path that led eastwards towards 
the Abruzzi. Here she was met by a party of horsemen, her 
own guardiani, or forest-keepers, as they are called, in rough 
dark- blue coats and leathern gaiters. Each man wore upon his 
breast a round plate of chiselled silver, bearing the arms of the 
Astrardente; each had a long rifle slung behind him, and car- 
ried a holster at the bow of his huge saddle. A couple of 
sturdy black-browed peasants held a mule by the bridle, heavily 
caparisoned in the old fashion, under a great red velvet Spanish 
saddle, with long tarnished trappings that had once been em- 
broidered with silver. A little knot of peasants and ragged 
boys stood all around watching the preparations with interest, 
and commenting audibly upon the beauty of the great lady. 

Corona mounted from a stone by the wayside, and the young 
men led her beast up the path. She smiled to herself, for she 
had never done such a thing before, but she was not uneasy in 
the company of her rough-looking escort. She knew well 
enough that she was as safe with them as in her own house. 


228 


SAEACINESCA. 


As the bridle-path wound up from the road, the country 
grew more rugged, the vegetation more scanty, and the stones 
more plentiful. It was a wilderness of rocky desolation; as 
far as one could see there was no sign of humanity, not a soul 
upon the solitary road, not a living thing upon the desolate 
hills that rose on either side in jagged points to the sky. 
Corona talked a little with the head-keeper who rode beside 
her with a slack rein, letting his small mountain horse pick its 
own way over the rough path. He told her that few people 
ever passed that way. It was the short road to Saracinesca. 
The princes sometimes sent their carriage round by the longer 
way and rode over the hills; and in the vintage-time there was 
some traffic, as many of the smaller peasants carried grapes 
across the pass to the larger wine-presses, and sold them out- 
right. It was not a dangerous road, for the very reason that it 
was so unfrequented. The Duchessa explained that she only 
wanted to see the valley beyond from the summit of the pass, 
and would then return. It was past mid-day when the party 
reached the highest point, — a depression between the crags just 
wide enough to admit one loaded mule. The keeper said she 
could see Saracinesca from the end of the narrow way, before 
the descent began. She uttered an exclamation of surprise as 
she reached the spot. 

Scarcely a quarter of a mile to the right, at the extremity of 
a broad hill-road, she saw the huge towers of Saracinesca, grey 
and storm-beaten, rising out of a thick wood. The whole 
intervening space — and indeed the whole deep valley as far as 
she could see — was an unbroken forest of chestnut-trees. Here 
and there below the castle the houses of the town showed their 
tiled gables, but the mass of the buildings was hidden com- 
pletely from sight. Corona had had no idea that she should 
find herself so near to the place, and she was seized with a sud- 
den fear lest Giovanni should appear upon the long straight 
path that led into the trees. She drew back a little among her 
followers. 

“ Are the princes there now ? ” she asked of the head-keeper. 

He did not know; but a moment later a peasant, riding 
astride of a bag of corn upon his donkey^s back, passed along 
the straight road by the entrance to the bridle-path. The 
keeper hailed him, and put the question. Seeing Corona upon 
her mule, surrounded by armed men in livery, the man halted, 
and pulled olf his soft black-cloth hat. 

Both the princes were in Saracinesca, he said. The young 
prince had been there ever since Easter. They were busy 
building an aqueduct which was to supply the whole town with 
water; it was to pass above, up there among the woods. The 
princes went almost every day to visit the works. Her Excel- 


SARACINESCA. 


229 


lency might, perhaps, find them there now, or if not, they were 
at the castle. 

But her Excellency had no intention of finding them. She 
gave the fellow a coin, and beat a somewhat hasty retreat. 
Her followers were silent men, accustomed to obey, and they 
followed her down the steep path without even exchanging a 
word among themselves. Beneath the shade of an overhang- 
ing rock she halted, and, dismounting from her mule, was 
served with the lunch that had been brought. She ate little, 
and then sat thoughtfully contemplating the bare stones, while 
the men at a little distance hastily disposed of the remains of 
her meal. She had experienced an extraordinary emotion on 
finding herself suddenly so near to Giovanni: it was almost as 
though she had seen him, and her heart beat fast, while a dark 
flush rose from time to time to her cheek. It would have been 
so natural that he should pass that way, just as she was halting 
at the entrance to the bridle-path. How unspeakably dreadful 
it would have been to be discovered thus spying out his dwell- 
ing-place when she had so strictly forbidden him to attempt to 
see her! The blush burned upon her cheeks — she had done a 
thing so undignified, so ill befitting her magnificent superiority. 
For a moment she was desperately ashamed. But for all that, 
she could not repress the glad delight she felt at knowing that 
he was there after all; that, if he had kept his word in avoid- 
ing her, he had, nevertheless, also fulfilled his intention of 
spending the summer in Saracinesca. He had even been there 
since Easter, and the story of his going to the North had been 
a mere invention of the newspapers. She could not understand 
his conduct, nor why he had gone to Paris — a fact attested by 
people who knew him. It had probably been for some matter 
of business — that excuse which, in a woman^s mind, explains 
almost any sudden journey a man may undertake. But he was 
there in the castle now, and her heart was satisfied. 

The men packed the things in the basket, and Corona was 
helped upon her mule. Slowly the party descended the steep 
path that grew broader and more practicable as they neared the 
bottom ; there the carriage awaited her, and soon she was bowling 
along the smooth road towards home, leaving far behind her the 
mounted guards, the peasants, and her slow-paced mule. The 
sun was low when the carriage rolled under the archway of As- 
trardente. Sister Gabrielle said Corona looked much the better 
for her excursion, and she added that she must be very strong to 
bear such fatigue so well. And the next day — and for many 
days — the Sister noticed the change in her hostesses manner, and 
promised herself that if the Duchessa became uneasy again she 
would advise another day among the hills, so wonderful was the 
effect of a slight change from the ordinary routine of her life. 


230 


SARACINESCA. 


That night old Saracinesca and his son sat at dinner in a 
wide hall of their castle. The faithful Pasquale served them 
as solemnly as he was used to do in Rome. This evening he 
spoke again. He had ventured no remark since he had in- 
formed them of the Duca d^ As trard enter’s death. 

I beg your Excellencies^ pardon/^ he began, adopting his 
usual formula of apologetic address. 

Well, Pasquale, what is it asked old Saracinesca. 

“ I did not know whether your Excellency was aware that 
the Duchessa d^Astrardente had been here to-day.^^ 

“ What ? ” roared the Prince. 

You must be mad, Pasquale ! exclaimed Giovanni in a 
low voice. 

“ I beg your Excellencies’ pardon if I am wrong, but this is 
how I know. Gigi Secchi, the peasant from Aquaviva in the 
lower forest, brought a bag of corn to the mill to-day, and he 
told the miller, and the miller told Ettore, and Ettore told 
Nino, and Nino told ” 

What the devil did he tell him ? ” interrupted old Saracinesca. 

“Nino told the cook’s boy,” continued Pasquale unmoved, 
“and the cook’s boy told me, your Excellency, that Gigi was 
passing along the road to Serveti coming here, when he was 
stopped by a number of guardiani who accompanied a beauti- 
ful dark lady in black, who rode upon a mule, and the guardi- 
ani asked him if your Excellencies were at Saracinesca; and 
when he said you were, the lady gave him a coin, and turned 
at once and rode down the bridle-path towards Astrardente, 
and he said the guardiani were those of the Astrardente, be- 
cause he remembered to have seen one of them, who has a scar 
over his left eye, at the great fair at Genazzano last year. And 
that is how I heard.” 

“ That is a remarkable narrative, Pasquale,” answered the 
Prince, laughing loudly, “but it seems very credible. Go and 
send for Gigi Secchi if he is still in the neighbourhood, and 
bring him here, and let us have the story from his own lips.” 

When they were alone the two men looked at each other for 
a moment, and then old Saracinesca laughed again; but Gio- 
vanni looked very grave, and his face was pale. Presently his 
father became serious again. 

“ If this thing is true,” he said, “ I would advise you, Gio- 
vanni, to pay a visit to the other side of the hills. It is time.” 

Giovanni was silent for a moment. He was intensely inte- 
rested in the situation, but he could not tell his father that he 
had promised Corona not to see her, and he had not yet ex- 
plained to himself her sudden appearance so near Saracinesca. 

“ I think it would be better for you to go first,” he said to 
his father. “ But I am not at all sure this story is true.” 


SARACIKESCA. 


331 


I ? Oh, I will go when you please,” returned the old man, 
with another laugh. He was always ready for anything active. 

But Grigi Secchi could not be found. He had returned to 
Aquaviva at once, and it was not easy to send a message. Two 
days later, how'ever, Giovanni took the trouble of going to the 
man’s home. He was not altogether surprised when Gigi con- 
firmed Pasquale’s tale in every particular. Corona had ac- 
tually been at Saracinesca to find out if Giovanni was there or 
not ; and on hearing that he Avas at the castle, she had fied pre- 
cipitately. Giovanni was naturally grave and of a melancholy 
temper; but during the last few months he had been more 
than usually taciturn, occupying himself with dogged obstinacy 
in the construction of his aqueduct, visiting the works in the 
day and spending hours in the evening over the plans. He was 
waiting. He believed that Corona cared for him, and he knew 
that he loved her, but for the present he must wait patiently, 
both for the sake of his promise and for the sake of a decent 
respect for her widowhood. In order to wait he felt the ne- 
cessity of constant occupation, and to that end he had set him- 
self resolutely to work with his father, whose ideal dream was 
to make Saracinesca the most complete and prosperous com- 
munity in that part of the mountains. 

“ I think if you would go over,” he said, at the end of a week, 
it would be much better. I do not want to intrude myself 
upon her at present, and you could easily find out whether she 
would like to see me. After all, she may have been merely 
making an excursion for her amusement, and may have chanced 
upon us by accident. I have often noticed hoAV suddenly one 
comes in view of the castle from that bridle-path.” 

“ On the other hand,” returned the Prince with a smile, 
any one would tell her that the path leads nowhere except to 
Saracinesca. But I will go to-morrow,” he added. I will set 
your mind at rest in twenty-four hours.” 

Thank you,” said Giovanni. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Old Saracinesca kept his word, and on the following morn- 
ing, eight days after Corona’s excursion upon the hills, he rode 
down to Astrardente, reaching the palace at about mid-day. 
He sent in his card, and stood waiting beneath the great gate, 
beating the dust from his boots with his heavy whip. His face 
looked darker than ever, from constant exposure to the sun, 
and his close-cropped hair and short square beard had turned 
even Avhiter than before in the last six months, but his strong 
form was erect, and his step firm and elastic. He was a re- 
markable old man; many a boy of twenty might have envied 
his strength and energetic vitality. 


232 


SAEACIl^ESCA. 


Corona was at her mid-day breakfast with Sister Gabrielle, 
when the old Princess card was brought. She started at the 
sight of the name; and though upon the bit of pasteboard she 
read plainly enough, II Prmcipe di Saracinesca” she hesi- 
tated, and asked the butler if it was really the Prince. He 
said it was. 

‘‘Would you mind seeing him?” she asked of Sister Gabri- 
elle. “ He is an old gentleman,” she added, in explanation — 
“ a near neighbour here in the mountains.” 

Sister Gabrielle had no objection. She even remarked that 
it would do the Huchessa good to see some one. 

“ Ask the Prince to come in, and put another place at the 
table,” said Corona. 

A moment later the old man entered, and Corona rose to 
receive him. There was something refreshing in the ring of 
his deep voice and the clank of his spurs as he crossed the 
marble floor. 

“ Signora Duchessa, you are very good to receive me. I did 
not know that this was your breakfast-hour. Ah!” he ex- 
claimed, glancing at Sister Gabrielle, who had also risen to her 
feet, “ good day, my Sister.” 

“ Sister Gabrielle,” said Corona, as an introduction; “ she is 
good enough to be my companion in solitude.” 

To tell the truth. Corona felt uneasy; but the sensation was 
somehow rather pleasurable, although it crossed her mind that 
the Prince might have heard of her excursion, and had possibly 
come to And out why she had been so near to his place. She 
boldly faced the situation. 

“ I nearly came upon you the other day as unexpectedly as 
you have visited me,” she said with a smile. “ I had a fancy to 
look over into your valley, and when I reached the top of the 
hill I found I was almost in your house.” 

“ I wish you had quite been there,” returned the Prince. 
“ Of course I heard that you had been seen, and we guessed 
you had stumbled upon us in some mountain excursion. My 
son rode all the way to Aquaviva to see the man who had 
spoken with you.” 

Saracinesca said this as though it were perfectly natural, help- 
ing himself to the dish the servant offered him. But when he 
looked up he saw that Corona blushed beneath her dark skin. 

“ It is such a very sudden view at that point,” she said, ner- 
vously, “ that I was startled.” 

“ I wish you had preserved your equanimity to the extent of 
going a little further. Saracinesca has rarely been honoured 
with the visit of a Duchessa d'Astrardente. But since you 
have explained your visit— or the visit which you did not make 
— I ought to explain mine. You must know, in the first place. 


SARACIN-ESCA. 


233 


that I am not here by accident, but by intention, preconceived, 
well pondered, and finally executed to my own complete satis- 
faction. I came, not to get a glimpse of your valley nor a 
distant view of your palace, but to see you, yourself. Your 
hospitality in receiving me has therefore crowned and compli- 
mented the desire I had of seeing you.^^ 

Corona laughed a little. 

That is a very pretty speech,” she said. 

Which you would have lost if you had not received me,” 
he answered, gaily. have not done yet. I have many 
pretty speeches for you. The sight of you induces beauty in 
language as the sun in May makes the flowers open.” 

That is another,” laughed Corona. Do you spend your 
days in studying the poets at Saracinesca? Does Don Gio- 
vanni study with you ? ” . > 

“Giovanni is a fact,” returned the Prince; “I am a fable.\ 
Old men are always fables, for they represent, in a harmless j 
form, the follies of all mankind; their end is always in itself a ■ 
moral, and young people can learn much by studying them.” 

“Your comparison is witty,” said Corona, who was much 
amused at old Saracinesca’s conversation; “but I doubt 
whether you are so harmless as you represent. You are cer- 
tainly not foolish, and I am not sure whether, as a study for 
the young ” she hesitated, and laughed. 

“ Whether extremely young persons would have the wit to 
comprehend virtue by the concealment of it — to say, as that 
witty old Eoman said, that the images of Cassius and Brutus 
were more remarkable than those of any one else, for the very 
reason that they were nowhere to be seen — like my virtues ? 
Giovanni, for instance, is the very reverse of me in that, though 
he has shown such singularly bad taste in resembling my out- 
ward man.” 

“ One should never conceal virtues,” said Sister Gabrielle, 
gently. “ One should not hide oner’s light under a basket, you 
know.” 

“ My Sister,” replied the old Prince, his black eyes twinkling 
merrily, “ if I had in my whole composition as much light as 
would enable you to read half-a-dozen words in your breviary, 
it should be at your disposal. I would set it in the midst of 
Piazza Colonna, and call it the most wonderful illumination on 
record. Unfortunately my light, like the lantern of a solitary 
miner, is only perceptible to myself, and dimly at that.” 

“ You must not depreciate yourself so very much,” said Corona. 

“No; that is true. You will either believe I am speaking 
the truth, or you will not. I do not know which would be the 
worse fate. I will change the subject. My son Giovanni, 
Duchessa, desires to be remembered in your good graces.” 


234 


SARACINESCA. 


Thanks. How is he ? ” 

He is well, but the temper of him is marvellously melan- 
choly. He is building an aqueduct, and so am I. The thing 
is accomplished by his working perpetually while I smoke 
cigarettes and read novels.” 

“ The division of labour is to your advantage, I should say,” 
remarked Corona. 

Immensely, I assure you. He promotes the natural advan- 
tages of my lands, and I encourage the traffic in tobacco and 
literature. He works from morning till night, is his own engi- 
neer, contractor, overseer, and master-mason. He does every- 
thing, and does it well. If we were less barbarous in our 
bachelor establishment I would ask you to come and see us — in 
earnest this time — and visit the work we are doing. It is well 
worth while. Perhaps you would consent as it is. We will 
vacate the castle for your benefit, and mount guard outside the 
gates all night.” 

Again Corona blushed. She would have given anything to 
go, but she felt that it was impossible. 

‘‘ I would like to go,” she said. If one could come back 
the same day.” 

** You did before,” remarked Saracinesca, bluntly. 

But it was late when I reached home, and I spent no time 
at all there.” 

‘‘ I know you did not,” laughed the old man. “ You gave 
Gigi Secchi some money, and then fled precipitately.” 

Indeed I was afraid you would suddenly come upon me, 
and I ran away,” answered Corona, laughing in her turn, as the 
dark blood rose to her olive cheeks. 

As my amiable ancestors did in the same place when any- 
body passed with a full purse,” suggested Saracinesca. But 
we have improved a little since then. We would have asked 
you to breakfast. Will you come ?” 

I do not like to go alone ; I cannot, you see. Sister Gabri- 
elle could never ride up that hill on a mule.” 

‘‘ There is a road for carriages,” said the Prince. I will 
propose something in the way of a compromise. I will bring 
Giovanni down with me and our team of mountain horses. 
Those great beasts of yours cannot do this kind of work. We 
will take you and Sister Gabrielle up almost as fast as you 
could go by the bridle-path.” 

And back on the same day ? ” asked Corona. 

No; on the next day.” 

“ But I do not see where the compromise is,” she replied. 

Sister Gabrielle is at once the compromise and the cause 
that you will not be compromised. I beg her pardon ” 

Both ladies laughed. 


SAKACIIfESCA. 


235 


I will be very glad to go/^ said the Sister. I do not see 
that there is anything extraordinary in the Prince’s proposal.” 

My Sister,” returned Saracinesca, you are on the way to 
saintship; you already enjoy the beatific vision; you see with a 
heavenly perspicuity.” 

“ It is a charming proposition,” said Corona; but in that 
case you will have to come down the day before.” She was a 
little embarrassed. 

We will not invade the cloister,” answered the Prince. 
“ Giovanni and I will spend the night in concocting pretty 
speeches, and will appear armed with them at dawn before your 
gates.” 

There is room in Astrardente,” replied Corona. You shall 
not lack hospitality for a night. When will you come ? ” 

To-morrow evening, if you please. A good thing should be 
done quickly, in order not to delay doiijg it again.” 

“Do you think I would go again ? ” 

Saracinesca fixed his black eyes on Corona’s, and gazed at her 
some seconds before he answered. 

“ Madam,” he said at last, very gravely, “ I trust you will 
come again and stay longer.” 

“You are very good,” returned Corona, quietly. “At all 
events, I will go this first time.” 

“We will endeavour to show our gratitude by making you 
comfortable,” answered the Prince, resuming his former tone. 
“ You shall have a mass in the morning and a litany in the 
evening. We are godless fellows up there, but we have a 
priest.” 

“ You seem to associate our comfort entirely with religious 
services,” laughed Corona. “ But you are very considerate.” 

“ I see the most charming evidence of devotion at your side,” 
he replied; “ Sister Gabrielle is both the evidence of your piety 
and is in herself an exposition of the benefits of religion. There 
shall be other attractions, however, besides masses and litanies.” 

Breakfast being ended. Sister Gabrielle left the two together. 
They wont from the dining-room to the great vaulted hall of 
the inner building. It was cool there, and there were great old 
arm-chairs ranged along the walls. The closed blinds admitted 
a soft gToen light from the hot noonday without. Corona loved 
to walk upon the cool marble floor; she was a very strong and 
active woman, delighting in mere motion — not restless, but 
almost incapable of weariness; her movements not rapid, but 
full of grace and ease. Saracinesca walked by her side, smok- 
ing thoughtfully for some minutes. 

“ Duchessa,” he said at last, glancing at her beautiful face, 
“ things are greatly changed since we met last. You were angry 
with me then. I do not know whether you were so justly, but 


236 


SAKACINESOA. 


you were very angry for a few moments. I am going to return 
to the subject now; I trust you will not be offended with me/^ 

Corona trembled for a moment, and was silent. She would 
have prevented him from going on, but before she could find 
the words she sought he continued. 

“Things are much changed, in some respects; in others, not 
at all. It is but natural to suppose that in the course of time 
you will think of the possibility of marrying again. My son, 
Duchessa, loves you very truly. Pardon me, it is no disrespect 
to you, now, that he should have told me so. I am his father, 
and I have no one else to care for. He is too honest a gentleman 
to have spoken of his affection for you at an earlier period, but 
he has told me of it now.'’^ 

Corona stood still in the midst of the great hall, and faced 
the old Prince. She had grown pale while he was speaking. 
Still she was silent. 

“ I have nothing more to say — that is all,” said Saracinesca, 
gazing earnestly into the depths of her eyes. “ I have nothing 
more to say.” 

“Do you then mean to repeat the warning you once gave 
me ? ” asked Corona, growing whiter still. “ Do you mean to 
imply that there is danger to your son ? ” 

“ There is danger — great danger for him, unless you will 
avert it.” 

“ And how ?” asked Corona, in a low voice. 

“ Madam, by becoming his wife.” 

Corona started and turned away in great agitation. Saraci- 
nesca stood still while she slowly walked a few steps from him. 
She could not speak. 

“ I could say a great deal more, Duchessa,” he said, as she 
came back towards him. “ I could say that the marriage is not 
only fitting in every other way, but is also advantageous from a 
worldly point of view. You are sole mistress of Astrardente; 
my son will before long be sole master of Saracinesca. Our 
lands are near together — that is a great advantage, that question 
of fortune. Again, I would observe that, with your magnificent 
position, you could not condescend to accept a man of lower 
birth than the highest in the country. There is none higher 
than the Saracinesca — pardon my arrogance, — and among 
princes there is no braver, truer gentleman than my son Oiovanni. 
I ask no pardon for saying that; I will maintain it against all 
comers. I forego all questions of advantage, and base my argu- 
ment upon that. He is the best man I know, and he loves you 
devotedly.” 

“Is he aware that you are here for this purpose?” asked 
Corona, suddenly. She spoke with a great effort. 

“ Ho. He knows that I am here, and was glad that I came. 


SARACINESCA. 


237 


He desired me to ascertain if yon would see him. He would 
certainly not have thought of addressing you at present. I am 
an old man, and I feel that I must do things quickly. That is 
my excuse.” 

Corona was again silent. She was too truthful to give an 
evasive answer, and yet she hesitated to speak. The position 
was an embarrassing one; she was taken unawares, and was 
terrified at the emotion she felt. It had never entered her 
mind that the old Prince could appear on his son^s behalf, and 
she did not know how to meet him. 

I have perhaps been too abrupt,” said Saracinesca. ^‘1 love 
my son very dearly, and his happiness is more to me than what 
remains of my own. If from the first you regard my proposi- 
tion as an impossible one, I would spare him the pain of a 
humiliation, — I fear I could not save him from the rest, from a 
suffering that might drive him mad. It is for this reason that 
I implore you, if you are able, to give me some answer, not that 
I may convey it to him, but in order that I may be guided in 
future. He cannot forget you ; but he has not seen you for six 
months. To see you again if he must leave you for ever, would 
only inflict a fresh wound.” He paused, while Corona slowly 
walked by his side. 

I do not see why I should conceal the truth from you,” she 
said at last. I cannot conceal it' from myself. I am not a 
child that I should be ashamed of it. There is nothing wrong 
in it — no reason why it should not be. You are honest, too — 
why should we try to deceive ourselves ? I trust to your honour 
to be silent, and I own that I — that I love your son.” 

Corona stood still and turned her face away, as the burning 
blush rose to her cheeks. The answer she had given was 
characteristic of her, straightforward and honest. She was not 
ashamed of it, and yet the words were so new, so strange in their 
sound, and so strong in their meaning, that she blushed as she 
uttered them. Saracinesca was greatly surprised, too, for he had 
expected some evasive turn, some hint that he might bring Gio- 
vanni. But his delight had no bounds. 

Duchessa,” he said, the happiest day I can remember was 
when I brought home my wife to Saracinesca. My proudest 
day will be that on which my son enters the same gates with 
you by his side.” 

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, with a courteous 
gesture. 

It will be long before that — it must be very long,” answered 
Corona. 

It shall be when you please. Madam, provided it is at last. 
Meanwhile we will come down to-morrow, and take you to our 
tower. Do you understand now why I said that I hoped you 


238 


SARACINESCA. 


would come again and stay longer? I trust you have not 
changed your mind in regard to the excursion.” 

No. We will expect you to-morrow night. Remember, I 
have been honest with you — I trust to you to be silent.” 

You have my word. And now, with your permission, I will 
return to Saracinesca. Believe me, the news that you expect 
us will be good enough to tell Giovanni.” 

You may greet him from me. But will you not rest awhile 
before you ride back ? You must be tired.” 

‘‘No fear of that!” answered the Prince. “You have put 
a new man into an old one. I shall never tire of bearing the 
news of your greetings.” 

So the old man left her, and mounted his horse and rode up 
the pass. But Corona remained for hours in the vaulted hall, 
pacing up and down. It had come too soon — far too soon. 
And yet, how she had longed for it 1 how she had wondered 
whether it would ever come at all I 

The situation was sufficiently strange, too. Giovanni had 
once told her of his love, and she had silenced him. He was 
to tell her again, and she was to accept what he said. He was 
to ask her to marry him, and her answer was a foregone con- 
clusion. It seemed as though this greatest event of her life 
were planned to the very smallest details beforehand; as though 
she were to act a part which she had studied, and which was 
yet no comedy because it was the expression of her lifers truth. 
The future had been, as it were, prophesied and completely 
foretold to her, and held no surprises; and yet it was more 
sweet to think of than all the past together. She wondered 
how he would say it, what his words would be, how he would 
look, whether he would again be as strangely violent as he had 
been that night at the Palazzo Frangipani. She wondered, most 
of all, how she would answer him. But it would be long yet. 
There would be many meetings, many happy days before that 
happiest day of all. 

Sister Gabrielle saw a wonderful change in Corona’s face that 
afternoon when they drove up the valley together, and she re- 
marked what wonderful effect a little variety had upon her 
companion’s spirits — she could not say upon her health, for 
Corona seemed made of velvet and steel, so smooth and dark, 
and yet so supple and strong. Corona smiled brightly as she 
looked far up at the beetling crags behind which Saracinesca 
was hidden. 

“We shall be up there the day after to-morrow,” she said. 
“ How strange it will seem ! ” And leaning back, her deep eyes 
flashed, and she laughed happily. 

On the following evening, again, they drove along the road 
that led up the valley. But they had not gone far when they 


SARACINESCA. 


239 


saw in the distance a cloud of dust, from which in a few mo- 
ments emerged a vehicle drawn by three strong horses, and 
driven by Giovanni Saracinesca himself. His father sat beside 
him in front, and a man in livery was seated at the back, with 
a long rifle between his knees. The vehicle was a kind of 
double cart, capable of holding four persons, and two servants 
at the back. 

In a moment the two carriages met and stopped side by side. 
Giovanni sprang from his seat, throwing the reins to his father, 
who stood up hat in hand, and bowed from where he was. 
Corona held out her hand to Giovanni as he stood bareheaded 
in the road beside her. One long look told all the tale ; there 
could be no words there before the Sister and the old Prince, 
but their eyes told all — the pain of past separation, the joy of 
two loving hearts that met at last without hindrance. 

^^Let your servant drive, and get in with us,^^ said Corona, 
who could hardly speak in her excitement. Then she started 
slightly, and smiled in her embarrassment. She had continued 
to hold Giovanni^s hand, unconsciously leaving her fingers in his. 

The Princess groom climbed into the front seat, and old Sara- 
cinesca got down and entered the landau. It was a strangely 
silent meeting, long expected by the two who so loved each 
other — long looked for, but hardly realised now that it had 
come. The Prince was the first to speak, as usual. 

“You expected to meet us, Duchessa?^^ he said; “we ex- 
pected to meet you. An expectation fulfilled is better than a 
surprise. Everything at Saracinesca is prepared for your re- 
ception. Don Angelo, our priest, has been warned of your 
coming, and the boy who serves mass has been washed. You 
may imagine that a great festivity is expected. Giovanni has 
turned the castle inside out, and had a room hung entirely with 
tapestries of my great-grandmother's own working. He says 
that since the place is so old, its antiquity should be carried 
into the smallest details." 

Corona laughed gaily — she would have laughed at anything 
that day — and the old Prince's tone was fresh and sparkling 
and merry. He had relieved the first embarrassment of the 
situation. 

“ There have been preparations at Astrardente for your re- 
ception, too," answered the Duchessa. “ There was a difficulty 
of choice, as there are about a hundred vacant rooms in the 
house. The butler proposed to give you a suite of sixteen to 
pass the night in, but I selected an airy little nook in one of 
the wings, where you need only go through ten to get to your 
bedroom." 

“ There is nothing like space," said the Prince ; “ it enlarges 
the ideas." 


240 


SARACINESCA. 


I cannot imagine what my father would do if his ideas were 
extended/' remarked Giovanni. ^'Everything he imagines is 
colossal already. He talks about tunnelling the mountains for 
my aqueduct, as though it were no more trouble than to run 
a stick through a piece of paper." 

"Your aqueduct, indeed!" exclaimed his father. "I would 
like to know whose idea it was ? " 

" I hear you are working like an engineer yourself, Don Gio- 
vanni," said Corona. " I have a man at work at Astrardente 
on some plans of roads. Perhaps some day you could give us 
your advice." 

Some day! How sweet the words sounded to Giovanni as 
he sat opposite the woman he loved, bowling along through the 
rich vine lands in the cool of the summer evening! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The opportunity which Giovanni sought of being alone with 
Corona was long in coming. Sister Gabrielle retired immedi- 
ately after dinner, and the Duchessa was left alone with the 
two men. Old Saracinesca would gladly have left his son with 
the hostess, but the thing was evidently impossible. The man- 
ners of the time would not allow it, and the result was that the 
Prince spent the evening in making conversation for two rather 
indifferent listeners. He tried to pick a friendly quarrel with 
Giovanni, but the latter was too absent-minded even to be an- 
noyed ; he tried to excite the Duchessa's interest, but she only 
smiled gently, making a remark from time to time which was 
conspicuous for its irrelevancy. But old Saracinesca was in a 
good humour, and he bore up bravely until ten o'clock, when 
Corona gave the signal for retiring. They were to start very 
early in the morning, she said, and she must have rest. 

When the two men were alone, the Prince turned upon his 
son in semi-comic anger, and upbraided him with his obstinate 
dulness during the evening. Giovanni only smiled calmly, and 
shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more to be said. 

But on the following morning, soon after six o'clock, Gio- 
vanni had the supreme satisfaction of installing Corona beside 
him upon the driving-seat of his cart, while his father and Sister 
Gabrielle sat together behind him. The sun was not yet above 
the hills, and the mountain air was keen and fresh; the stamp- 
ing of the horses sounded crisp and sharp, and their bells rang 
merrily as they shook their sturdy necks and pricked their 
short ears to catch Giovanni's voice. 

" Have you forgotten nothing, Duchessa ? " asked Giovanni, 
gathering the reins in his hand. 

"Nothing, thanks. I have sent our things on mules — by 


SAKACIKESCA. 


241 


the bridle-path.” She smiled involuntarily as she recalled her 
adventure, and half turned her face away. 

“ All, yes — the bridle-path,” repeated Giovanni, as he nodded 
to the groom to stand clear of the horses'’ heads. In a moment 
they were briskly descending the winding road through the 
town of Astrardente: the streets were quiet and cool, for the 
peasants had all gone to their occupations two hours before, and 
the children were not yet turned loose. 

I never hoped to have the honour of myself driving you to 
Saracinesca,” said Giovanni. It is a wild place enough, in its 
way. You will be able to fancy yourself in Switzerland.” 

“ I would rather be in Italy,” answered Corona. “ I do not 
care for the Alps. Our own mountains are as beautiful, and are 
not infested by tourists.” 

You are a tourist to-day,” said Giovanni. ^^And it has 
pleased Heaven to make me your guide.” 

I will listen to your explanations of the sights with interest.” 

“ It is a reversal of the situation, is it not ? When we last 
met, it was you who guided me, and I humbly followed your 
instructions. I did precisely as you told me.” 

Had I doubted that you would do as I asked, I would not 
have spoken,” answered Corona. 

“ There was one thing you advised me to do which I have 
not even attempted.” 

What was that ? ” 

You told me to forget you. I have spent six months in 
constantly remembering you, and in looking forward to this 
moment. Was I wrong?” 

‘^Of course,” replied the Duchessa, with a little laugh. 
“ You should by this time have forgotten my existence. They 
said you were gone to the North Pole — why did you change 
your mind ? ” 

I followed my load-star. It led me from Rome to Saraci- 
nesca by the way of Paris. I should have remained at Sara- 
cinesca — but you also changed your mind. I began to think 
you never would.” 

How long do you think of staying up there ? ” asked 
Corona, to turn the conversation. 

^‘Just so long as you stay at Astrardente,” he answered. 

You will not forbid me to follow you to Rome ? ” 

" How can I prevent you if you choose to do it ? ” 

“ By a word, as you did before.” 

Do you think I would speak that word ? ” she asked. 

“ I trust not. Why should you cause me needless pain and 
suffering ? If it was right then, it is not right now. Besides, 
you know me too well to think that I would annoy you or 
thrust myself upon you. But I will do as you wish.” 


242 


SARAOTITESCA. 


Thank you/^ she said quietly. Bu ': she turned her dark 
face toward him, and looked at him for a moment very gently, 
almost lovingly. Where was the use of trying to conceal what 
would not be hidden ? Every word he spoke told of his un- 
changed love, although the phrases were short and simple. 
Why should she conceal what she felt ? She knew it was a 
foregone conclusion. They loved each other, and she would 
certainly marry him in the course of a year. The long pent 
up forces of her nature were beginning to assert themselves; 
she had conquered and fought down her natural being in the 
effort to be all things to her old husband, to quench her grow- 
ing interest in Griovanni, to resist his declared love, to drive 
him from her in her widowhood; but now it seemed as though 
all obstacles were suddenly removed. She saw clearly how well 
she loved him, and it seemed folly to try and conceal it. As 
she sat by his side she was unboundedly happy, as she had 
never been in her life before : the cool morning breeze fanned 
her cheeks, and the music of his low voice soothed her, while 
the delicious sense of rapid motion lent a thrill of pleasure to 
every breath she drew. It was no matter what she said; it was 
as though she spoke unconsciously. All seemed predestined 
and foreplanned from all time, to be acted out to the end. The 
past vanished slowly as a retreating landscape. The weary 
traveller, exhausted with the heat of the scorching Campagna, 
slowly climbs the ascent towards Tivoli, the haven of cool 
waters, and pausing now and then upon the path, looks back 
and sees how the dreary waste of undulating hillocks beneath 
him seems gradually to subside into a dim flat plain, while, in 
the far distance, the mighty domes and towers of Kome dwindle 
to an unreal mirage in the warm haze of the western sky; then 
advancing again, he feels the breath of the mountains upon 
him, and hears the fresh plunge of the cold cataract, till at last, 
when his strength is almost failing, it is renewed within him, 
and the dust and the heat of the day^s journey are forgotten in 
the fulness of refreshment. So Corona d’Astrardente, wearied 
though not broken by the fatigues and the troubles and the 
temptations of the past flve years, seemed suddenly to be taken 
up and borne swiftly through the gardens of an earthly para- 
dise, where there was neither care nor temptation, and where, 
in the cool air of a new life, the one voice she loved was ever 
murmuring gentle things to her willing ear. 

As the road began to ascend, sweeping round the base of the 
mountain and upwards by even gradations upon its southern 
flank, the sun rose higher in the heavens, and the locusts broke 
into their summer song among the hedges with that even, long- 
drawn, humming note, so sweet to southern ears. But Corona 
did not feel the heat, nor notice the dust upon the way; she 


SAHACIN-ESCA. 


^43 


was ill a new state, wherein such things could not trouble her. 
The first embarrassment of a renewed intimacy was fast disap- 
pearing, and she talked easily to Giovanni of many things, re- 
viewing past scenes and speaking of mutual acquaintances, 
turning the conversation when it concerned Giovanni or herself 
too directly, yet ever and again coming back to that sweet 
ground which was no longer dangerous now. At last, at a turn 
in the road, the grim towers of ancient Saracinesca loomed in 
the distance, and the carriage entered a vast forest of chestnut 
trees, shady and cool after the sunny ascent. So they reached 
the castle, and the sturdy horses sprang wildly forward up the 
last incline till their hoofs struck noisily upon the flagstones of 
the bridge, and with a rush and a plunge they dashed under 
the black archway, and halted in the broad court beyond. 

Corona was surprised at the size of the old fortress. It seemed 
an endless irregular mass of towers and buildings, all of rough 
grey stone, surrounded by battlements and ramparts, kept in 
perfect repair, but destitute of any kind of ornament whatever. 
It might have been even now a military stronghold, and it was 
evident that there were traditions of precision and obedience 
within its walls which would have done credit to any barracks. 
The dominant temper of the master made itself felt at every 
turn, and the servants moved quickly and silently about their 
duties. There was something intensely attractive to Corona in 
the air of strength that pervaded the place, and Giovanni had 
never seemed to her so manly and so much in his element as 
under the grey walls of his ancestral home. The place, too, 
was associated in history with so many events, — the two men, 
Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca, stood there beside her, where 
their ancestors of the same names had stood nearly a thousand 
years b,efore, their strong dark faces having the same character- 
istics that for centuries had marked their race, features familiar 
to Romans by countless statues and pictures, as the stones of 
Rome themselves — but for a detail of dress, it seemed to Corona 
as though she had been suddenly transported back to the thir- 
teenth century. The idea fascinated her. The two men led 
her up the broad stone staircase, and ushered her and Sister 
Gabrielle into the apartments of state which had been prepared 
for them. 

We have done our best,” said the Prince, “but it is long 
since we have entertained ladies at Saracinesca.” 

“It is magnificent!” exclaimed Corona, as she entered the 
ante-chamber. The walls were hung from end to end with 
priceless tapestries, and the stone floor was covered with long 
eastern carpets. Corona paused. 

“ You must show us all over the castle by-and-by,” she said. 

“ Giovanni will show you everything,” answered the Prince. 


244 SAEACINESCA. 

it pleases you, we will breakfast in half-an-hour.” He 
turned away with his son, and left the two ladies to refresh 
themselves before the mid-day meal. 

Giovanni kept his word, and spared his guests no detail of 
the vast stronghold, until at last poor Sister Gabrielle could go 
no farther. Giovanni had anticipated that she would be tired, 
and with the heartlessness of a lover seeking his opportunity, he 
had secretly longed for the moment when she should be obliged 
to stop. 

“ You have not yet seen the view from the great tower,^^ he 
said. It is superb, and this is the very best hour for it. Are 
you tired, Huchessa ? 

“ No — I am never tired,^^ answered Corona. 

« Why not go with Giovanni ? suggested the Prince. “ I will 
stay with Sister Gabrielle, who has nearly exhausted herself 
with seeing our sights.^^ 

Corona hesitated. The idea of being alone with Giovanni for 
a quarter of an hour was delightful, but somehow it did not 
seem altogether fitting for her to be wandering over the castle 
with him. On the other hand, to refuse would seem almost an 
affectation : she was not in Eome, where her every movement 
was a subject for remark ; moreover, she was not only a married 
woman, but a widow, and she had known Giovanni for years — 
it would be ridiculous to refuse. 

Very well,’^ said she. ‘^Let us see the view before it is too 
late.” 

Sister Gabrielle and old Saracinesca sat down on a stone seat 
upon the rampart to wait, and the Duchessa disappeared with 
Giovanni through the low door that led into the great tower. 

^‘What a wonderful woman you are !” exclaimed Giovanni, 
as they reached the top of the winding stair, which was indeed 
broader than the staircase of many great houses in Kome. 

You seem to be never tired.” 

“No — I am very strong,” answered Corona, with a smile. 
She was not even out of breath. “ What a wonderful view ! ” 
she exclaimed, as they emerged upon the stone platform at the 
top of the tower. Giovanni was silent for a moment. The two 
stood together and looked far out at the purple mountains to 
eastward that caught the last rays of the sun high up above the 
shadows of the valley; and then looking down, they saw the 
Prince and the Sister a hundred feet below them upon the 
rampart. 

Both were thinking of the same thing: three days ago, their 
meeting had seemed infinitely far off, a thing dreamed of and 
hoped for — and now they were standing alone upon the topmost 
turret of Giovanni’s house, familiar with each other by a long 
day’s conversation, feeling as though they had never been parted. 


saeacinescA. ^45 

feeling also that most certainly they would not be parted 
again. 

‘‘It is very strange/' said Giovanni, “how things happen in 
this world, and how little we ever know of what is before ns. 
Last week I wondered whether I should ever see you — now I 
cannot imagine not seeing you. Is it not strange ? " 

“Yes," answered Corona, in a low voice. 

“ That, yesterday, we should have seemed parted by an insur- 
mountable barrier, and that to-day " he stopped. “ Oh, if 

to-day could only last for ever! " he exclaimed, suddenly. 

Corona gazed out upon the purple hills in silence, but her 
face caught some of the radiance of the distant glow, and her 
dark eyes had strange lights in them. She could not have pre- 
vented him from speaking; she had loosed the bonds that had 
held her life so long; the anchor was up, and the breath of love 
fanned the sails, and gently bore the craft in which she trusted 
out to seaward over the fair water. In seeing him she had re- 
signed herself to him, and she could not again get the mastery 
if she would. It had come too soon, but it was sweet. 

“ And why not ? " he said, very softly. “ Why should it not 
remain so for ever — till our last breath ? Why will you not let 
it last ? " 

Still she was silent; but the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, 
and welled over and lay upon her velvet cheek like dewdrops on 
the leaves of a soft dark tulip. Giovanni saw them, and knew 
that they were the jewels which crowned his life. 

“You will," he said, his broad brown hand gently covering 
her small fingers and taking them in his. “ You will — I know 
that you will." 

She said nothing, and though she at first made a slight move- 
ment — not of resistance, but of timid reluctance, utterly unlike 
herself — she suffered him to hold her hand. He drew closer to 
her, himself more diffident in the moment of success than he 
had ever been when he anticipated failure; she was so unlike 
any woman he had ever known before. Very gently he put his 
arm about her, and drew her to him. 

“ My beloved — at last," he whispered, as her head sank upon 
his shoulder. 

Then with a sudden movement she sprang to her height, and 
for one instant gazed upon him. Her whole being was trans- 
figured in the might of her passion : her dark face was lumi- 
nously pale, her lips almost white, and from her eyes there seemed 
to flash a blazing fire. For one instant she gazed upon him, 
and then her arms went round his neck, and she clasped him 
fiercely to her breast. 

“ Ah, Giovanni," she cried, passionately, “ you do not know 
what love means ! " 


^46 


SAKACIKESCA. 


A moment later her arms dropped from him; she turned and 
buried her face in her hands, leaning against the high stone par- 
apet of the tower. She was not weeping, but her face was white, 
and her bosom heaved with quick and strong-drawn breath. 

Giovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his right 
arm, and again her head rested upon his shoulder. 

“ It is too soon — too soon,^^ she murmured. “ But how can I 
help it ? I love you so that there is no counting of time. It 
seems years since we met last night, and I thought it would be 
years before I told you. Oh, Giovanni, I am so happy ! Is it 
possible that you love me as I love you ? ’’ 

It is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who love 
each other learn the gentle confidence that only love can bring. 
A few moments later Giovanni and Corona were slowly pacing 
the platform, and his arm was about her waist and her hand in 
his. 

“ Do you know,” she was saying, I used to wonder whether 
you would keep your word, and never try to see me. The days 
were so long at Astrardente.” 

^^Not half so long as at Saracinesca,” he answered. was 
going to call my aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs; I will christen 
it now the Spring of Love.” 

‘‘ I must go and see it to-morrow,” said she. 

“ Or the next day ” 

The next day ! ” she exclaimed, with a happy laugh. “ Do 
you think I am going to stay ” 

“ For ever,” interrupted Giovanni. We have a priest here, 
you know, — he can marry us to-morrow, and then you need 
never go away.” 

Coronals face grew grave. 

“We must not talk of that yet,” she said, gently, “even in 
jest.” 

“ No; you are right. Forgive me,” he answered; “ I forget 
many things — it seems to me I have forgotten everything, ex- 
cept that I love you.” 

“ Giovanni,” — she lingered on the name, — “ Giovanni, we 
must tell your father at once.” 

“ Are you willing I should ? ” he asked, eagerly. 

“Of course — he ought to know; and Sister Gabrielle too. 
But no one else must be told. There must be no talk of this in 
Eome until — until next year.” 

“We will stay in the country until then, shall we not?” 
asked Giovanni, anxiously. “ It seems to me so much better. 
We can meet here, and nobody will talk. I will go and live in 
the town at Astrardente^ and play the engineer, and build your 
roads for you.” 

“ I hardly know,” said Corona, with a doubtful smile. “You 


SAEACINESCA. 


241 

could not do that. But you may come and spend the day once 
— in a week, perhaps.^^ 

“We will arrange all tha^ answered Giovanni, laughing. 
“ If you think I can exist by only seeing you once a week — 
well, you do not know me.^^ 

“We shall see,"" returned Corona, laughing too. “ By the 
bye, how long have we been here ? "" 

“ I do not know,"" said Giovanni; “but the view is magnifi- 
cent, is it not ? "" 

“Enchanting,"" she replied, looking into his eyes. Then 
suddenly the blood mounted to her cheeks. “ Oh, Giovanni,"" 
she said, “ how could I do it ? "" 

“ I should have died if you had not,"" he answered, and 
clasped her once more in his arms. 

“ Come,"" said she, “ let us be going down. It is growing late."" 

When they reached the foot of the tower, they found the 
Prince walking the rampart alone. Sister Gabrielle was afraid 
of the evening air, and had retired into the house. Old 
Saracinesca faced them suddenly. He looked like an old 
lion, his thick white hair and beard bristling about his dark 
features. 

“ My father,"" said Giovanni, coming forward, “ the Duchessa 
d"Astrardente has consented to be my wife. I crave your bless- 
ing."" 

The old man started, and then stood stock-still. His son 
had fairly taken his breath away, for he had not expected the 
news for three or four months to come. Then he advanced 
and took Corona"s hand, and kissed it. 

“ Madam,"" he said, “ you have done my son an honour which 
extends to myself and to every Saracinesca, dead, living, and to 
come."" 

Then he laid Corona"s hand in Giovanni"s, and held his own 
upon them both. 

“ God bless you,"" he said, solemnly; and as Corona bent her 
proud head, he touched her forehead with his lips. Then he 
embraced Giovanni, and his joy broke out in wild enthusiasm. 

“ Ha, my children,"" he cried, “ there has not been such a 
couple as you are for generations — there has not been such 
good news toid in these old walls since they have stood here. 
We will illuminate the castle, the whole town, in your honour 
— we will ring the bells and have a Te Deum sung — we will 
have such a festival as was never seen before — we will go to 
Eome to-morrow and celebrate the espousal — we will "" 

“ Softly, 'padre 'tnio” interrupted Giovanni. “ No one must 
know as yet. You must consider "" 

“ Consider what ? consider the marriage? Of course we will 
consider it, as soon as you please. You shall have such a wed- 


m 


SARACIKESCA. 


ding as was never heard of — you shall be married by the Car- 
dinal Archpriest of Saint Peter’s, by the Holy Father himself. 
The whole country shall ring with it.” 

It was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his 
father’s excitement, and in recalling to his mind the circum- 
stances which made it necessary to conceal the engagement for 
the present. But at last the old man reluctantly consented, 
and returned to a quieter humour. For some time the three 
continued to pace the stone rampart. 

This is a case of arrant cruelty to a man of my temper,” 
said the Prince. To be expected to behave like an ordinary 
creature, with grins and smiles and decent paces, when I have 
just heard what I have longed to hear for years. But I will 
revenge myself by making a noise about it by-and-by. I will 
concoct schemes for your wedding, and dream of nothing but 
illuminations and decorations. You shall be Prince of Sant’ 
Ilario, Giovanni, as I was before my father died; and I will 
give you that estate outright, and the palace in the Oorso to 
live in.” 

Perhaps we might live in my palace,” suggested Corona. 
It seemed strange to her to be discussing her own marriage, but 
it was necessary to humour the old Prince. 

Of course,” he said. I forgot all about it. You have 
places enough to live in. One forgets that you will in the end 
be the richest couple in Italy. Ha!” he cried, in sudden 
enthusiasm, the Saracinesca are not dead yet I They are 
greater than ever — and our lands here so near together, too. 
We will build a new road to Astrardente, and when you are 
married you shall be the first to drive over it from Astrardente 
here. We will do all kinds of things — we will tunnel the 
mountain ! ” 

‘^I am sure you will do that in the end,” said Giovanni, 
laughing. 

Well — let us go to dinner,” answered his father. It has 
grown quite dark since we have been talking, and we shall be 
falling over the edge if we are not careful.” 

I will go and tell Sister Gabrielle before dinner,” said Co- 
rona to Giovanni. 

So they left her at the door of her apartment, and she went 
in. She found the Sister in an inner room, with a book of de- 
votions in her hand. 

Pray for me, my Sister,” she said, quietly. “ I have re- 
solved upon a great step. I am going to be married again.” 

Sister Gabrielle looked up, and a quiet smile stole over her 
thin face. 

It is soon, my friend,” she said. It is soon to think of 
that. But perhaps you are right — is it the young Prince ? ” 


SAKACIKESCA. 


249 


Yes,” answered Corona, and sank into a deep tapestried 
chair. It is soon I know well. But it has been long — I have 
struggled hard — I love him very much — so much, you do not 
know ! ” 

The Sister sighed faintly, and came and took her hand. 

“It is right that you should marry,” she said, gently. 
“You are too young, too famously beautiful, too richly en- 
dowed, to lead the life you have led at Astrardente these many 
months.” 

“ It is not that,” said Corona, an expression of strange 
beauty illuminating her lovely face. “ Not that I am young, 
beautiful as you say, if it is so, or endowed with riches-^those 
reasons are nothing. It is this that tells me,” she whispered, 
pressing her left hand to her heart. “ When one loves as I 
love, it is right.” 

“ Indeed it is,” assented the good Sister. “ And I think you 
have chosen wisely. When will you be married ? ” 

“ Hardly before next summer — I can hardly think con- 
nectedly yet — it has been very sudden. I knew I should 
marry him in the end, but I never thought I could consent 
so soon. Oh, Sister Cabrielle, you are so good — were you never 
in love ? ” 

The Sister was silent, and looked away. 

“No — of course you cannot tell me,” continued Corona; 
“ but it is such a wonderful thing. It makes days seem like 
hundreds of years, or makes them pass in a flash of light, in a 
second. It oversets every idea of time, and plays with one^s 
resolutions as the wind with a feather. If once it gets the 
mastery of one, it crowds a lifetime of pain and pleasure into 
one day ; it never leaves one for a moment. I cannot explain 
love — it is a wonderful thing.” 

“ My dear friend,” said the Sister, “ the explanation of love 
is life.” 

“But the end of it is not death. It cannot be,” continued 
Corona, earnestly. “ It must last for ever and ever. It must 
'grow better and purer and stronger, until it is perfect in heaven 
at last : but where is the use of trying to express such things ? ” 

“ I think it is enough to feel them,” said Sister Gabrielle. 


CHAPTEK XXVI. 

The summer season ripened into autumn, and autumn again 
turned to winter, and Eome was once more full. The talk of 
society turned frequently upon the probability of the match 
between the Duchessa d^Astrardente and Giovanni Saracinesca; 
and when at last, three weeks before Lent, the engagement was 
made known, there was a general murmur of approbation. It 


250 


SARACIIirESCA. 


seemed as though the momentous question of Corona’s life, 
which had for years agitated the gossips, were at last to be 
settled : every one had been accustomed to regard her marriage 
with old Astrardente as a temporary atfair, seeing that he cer- 
tainly could not live long, and speculation in regard to her 
future had been nearly as common during his lifetime as it was 
after his death. One of the duties most congenial to society, 
and one which it never fails to perform conscientiously, is that 
judicial astrology, whereby it forecasts the issue of its neigh- 
bour’s doings. Everybody’s social horoscope must be cast by 
the circle of five-o’clock-tea-drinking astro-sociologists, and, 
generally speaking, their predictions are not far short of the 
truth, for society knoweth its own bitterness, and is uncom- 
monly quick in the diagnosis of its own state of health. 

When it was announced that Corona was to marry Giovanni 
after Easter, society looked and saw that the arrangement was 
good. There was not one dissenting voice heard in the uni- 
versal applause. Corona had behaved with exemplary decency 
during the year of her mourning — had lived a life of religious 
retirement upon her estates in the sole company of a Sister of 
Charity, had given no cause for scandal in any way. Every- 
body aspired to like her— that is to say, to be noticed by her; 
but with one exception, she had caused no jealousy nor ill-feel- 
ing by her indifference, for no one had ever heard her say an 
unkind word concerning anybody she knew. Donna Tullia 
had her own reasons for hating Corona, and perhaps the world 
suspected them; but people did not connect the noisy Donna 
Tullia, full of animal spirits and gay silly talk, with the idea of 
serious hatred, much less with the execution of any scheme of 
revenge. 

Indeed Madame Mayer had not spent the summer and autumn 
in nursing her wrath against Corona. She had travelled with 
the old Countess, her companion, and several times Ugo del 
Ferice had appeared suddenly at the watering-places which she 
had selected for her temporary residence. From time to time 
he gave her news of mutual friends, which she repaid consci- 
entiously with interesting accounts of the latest scandals. They 
were a congenial pair, and Ugo felt that by his constant atten- 
tion to her wishes, and by her never- varying willingness to 
accept his service, he had obtained a hold upon her intimacy 
which, in the ensuing winter, would give him a decided advan- 
tage over all competitors in the field. She believed that she 
might have married half-a-dozen times, and that with her for- 
tune she could easily have made a very brilliant match; she 
even thought that she could have married Valdarno, who was 
very good-natured : but her attachment to Giovanni, and the 
expectations she had so long entertained in regard to him, had 


SARACIKESCA. 


251 


prevented her from showing any marked preference for others; 
and while she was hesitating, Del Ferice, by his superior skill, 
had succeeded in making himself indispensable to her — a 
success the more remarkable that, in spite of his gifts and the 
curious popularity he enjoyed, he was by far the least desirable 
man of her acquaintance from the matrimonial point of view. 

But when Donna Tullia again met Giovanni in the world, 
the remembrance of her wrongs revived her anger against him, 
and the news of his engagement to the Astrardente brought 
matters to a climax. In the excitement of the moment, both 
her jealousy and her anger were illuminated by the light of a 
righteous wrath. She knew, or thought she knew, that Don 
Giovanni was already married. She had no proof that the 
peasant wife mentioned in the certificate w'as alive, but there 
was nothing either to show that she was dead. Even in the 
latter case it was a scandalous thing that he should marry 
again without informing Corona of the circumstances of his 
past life, and Donna Tullia felt an inner conviction that he 
had told the Duchessa nothing of the matter. The latter was 
such a proud woman, that she would be horrified at the idea of 
uniting herself to a man who had been the husband of a peasant. 

Madame Mayer remembered her solemn promise to Del 
Ferice, and feared to act without his consent. An hour after 
she had heard the news of the engagement, she sent for him to 
come to her immediately. To her astonishment and dismay, 
her servant brought back word that he had suddenly gone to 
Naples upon urgent business. This news made her pause; but 
while the messenger had been gone to Del Ferice’s house, 
Donna Tullia had been anticipating and going over in her 
mind the scene which would ensue when she told Corona the 
secret. Donna Tullia was a very sanguine woman, and the 
idea of at last being revenged for all the slights she had re- 
ceived worked suddenly upon her brain, so that as she paced 
her drawing-room in expectation of the arrival of Del Ferice, 
she entirely acted out in her imagination the circumstances of 
the approaching crisis, the blood beat hotly in her temples, and 
she lost all sense of prudence in the delicious anticipation of 
violent words. Del Ferice had cruelly calculated upon her 
temperament, and he had hoped that in the excitement of the 
moment she would lose her head, and irrevocably commit her- 
self to him by the betrayal of the secret. This was precisely 
what occurred. On being told that he was out of town, she 
could no longer contain herself, and with a sudden determina- 
tion to risk anything blindly, rather than to forego the pleasure 
and the excitement she had been meditating, she ordered her 
carriage and drove to the Palazzo Astrardente. 

Corona was surprised at the unexpected visit. She was her- 


252 ^ 


SARACIKESCA. 


self on the point of going out, and was standing in her boudoir, 
drawing on her black gloves before the fire, while her furs lay 
upon a chair at her side. She wondered why Donna Tullia 
called, and it was in part her curiosity which induced her to 
receive her visit. Donna Tullia, armed to the teeth with the 
terrible news she was about to disclose, entered the room 
quickly, and remained standing before the Duchessa with a 
semi-tragic air that astonished Corona. 

‘‘How do you do, Donna Tullia said the latter, putting 
out her hand. 

“ I have come to speak to you upon a very serious matter,” 
answered her visitor, without noticing the greeting. 

Corona stared at her for a moment, but not being easily dis- 
concerted, she quietly motioned to Donna Tullia to sit down, 
and installed herself in a chair opposite to her. 

“ I have just heard the news that you are to marry Don Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca,” said Madame Mayer. “You will pardon 
me the interest I take in you; but is it true ?” 

“ It is quite trne,’^ answered Corona. 

“ It is in connection with your marriage that I wish to speak, 
Duchessa. I implore you to reconsider your decision.” 

“ And why, if you please ? ” asked Corona, raising her black 
eyebrows, and fixing her haughty gaze upon her visitor. 

“I could tell you — I would rather not,” answered Donna 
Tullia, unabashed, for her blood was up. “ I could tell you — 
but I beseech you not to ask me. Only consider the matter 
again, I beg you. It is very serious. Nothing but the great 
interest I feel in you, and my conviction ” 

“ Donna Tullia, your conduct is so extraordinary,” inter- 
rupted Corona, looking at her curiously, “that I am tempted 
to believe you are mad. I must beg you to explain what you 
mean by your words.” 

“ Ah, no,” answered Madame Mayer. “ You do me injustice. 
I am not mad, but I would save you from the most horrible 
danger.” 

“ Again I say, what do you mean ? I will not be trifled with 
in this way,” said the Duchessa, who would have been more 
angry if she had been less astonished, but whose temper was 
rapidly rising. 

“ I am not trifling with you,” returned Donna Tullia. “ I 
am imploring you to think before you act, before you marry 
Don Giovanni. You cannot think that I would venture to 
intrude upon you without the strongest reasons. I am in 
earnest.'’^ 

“ Then, in heaven’s name, speak out ! ” cried Corona, losing 
all patience. “ I presume that if this is a warning, you have 
some grounds, you have some accusation to make against Don 


SARACINESCA. 


253 


Giovanni. Have the goodness to state what you have to say, 
and be brief.^^ 

wilV^ said Donna Tiillia, and she paused a moment, her face 
growing red with excitement, and her blue eyes sparkling disagree- 
ably. You cannot marry Don Giovanni,'' she said at length, 
“ because there is an insurmountable impediment in the way." 

What is it?" asked Corona, controlling her anger. 

He is already married! " hissed Donna Tullia. 

Corona turned a little pale, and started back. But in an 
instant her colour returned, and she broke into a low laugh. 

“ You are certainly insane," she said, eyeing Madame Mayer 
suspiciously. It was not an easy matter to shake her faith in 
the man she loved. Donna Tullia was disappointed at the 
effect she had produced. She was a clever woman in her way, 
but she did not understand how to make the best of the situa- 
tion. She saw that she was simply an object of curiosity, and 
that Corona seriously believed her mind deranged. She was 
frightened, and, in order to help herself, she plunged deeper. 

“ You may call me mad, if you please," she replied, angrily. 

I tell you it is true. Don Giovanni was married on the 19th 
of June 1863, at Aquila, in the Abruzzi, to a woman called 
Felice Baldi — whoever she may have been. The register is 
extant, and the duplicate of the marriage certificate. I have 
seen the copies attested by a notary. 1 tell you it is true," she 
continued, her voice rising to a harsh treble; “ you are engaged 
to marry a man who has a wife — a peasant woman — somewhere 
in the mountains." 

Corona rose from her seat and put out her hand to ring the 
bell. She was pale, but not excited. She believed Donna 
Tullia to be insane, perhaps dangerous, and she calmly pro- 
ceeded to protect herself by calling for assistance. 

“ Either you are mad, or you mean what you say," she said, 
keeping her eyes upon the angry woman before her. You 
will not leave this house except in charge of my physician, if 
you are mad; and if you mean what you say, you shall not go 
until you have repeated your words to Don Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca himself, — no, do not start or try to escape — it is of no 
use. I am very sudden and violent — beware ! " 

Donna Tullia bit her red lip. She was beginning to realise 
that she had got herself into trouble, and that it might be hard 
to get out of it. But she felt herself strong, and she wished 
she had with her those proofs which would make her case good. 
She was so sanguine by nature that she was willing to carry 
the fight to the end, and to take her chance for the result. 

You may send for Don Giovanni if you please," she said. 

I have spoken the truth — if he denies it I can prove it, If I 
were you I would spare him the humiliation " 


254 


SARACINESCA. 


A servant entered the room in answer to the bell, and 
Corona interrupted Donna Tnllia’s speech by giving the man 
her orders. 

Go at once to the Palazzo Saracinesca, and beg Don Gio- 
vanni to come here instantly with his father the Prince. Take 
the carriage — it is waiting below.” 

The man disappeared, and Corona quietly resumed her seat. 
Donna Tnllia was silent for a few moments, attempting to con- 
trol her anger in an assumption of dignity ; but soon she broke 
out afresh, being rendered very nervous and uncomfortable by 
the Duchessa^s calm manner and apparent indilference to con- 
sequences. 

I cannot see why you should expose yourself to such a 
scene,” said Madame Mayer presently. ‘‘ I honestly wished to 
save you from a terrible danger. It seems to me it would be 
quite sufficient if I proved the fact to you beyond dispute. I 
should think that instead of being angry, you would show some 
gratitude.” 

“I am not angry,” ’answered Corona, quietly. ‘‘I am merely 
giving you an immediate opportunity of proving your assertion 
and your sanity.” 

My sanity ! ” exclaimed Donna Tullia, angrily. Do you 
seriously believe ” 

“ Nothing that you say,” said Corona, completing the sen- 
tence. 

Unable to bear the situation, Madame Mayer rose suddenly 
from her seat, and began to pace the small room with short, 
angry steps. 

You shall see,” she said, fiercely — ‘‘you shall see that it is 
all true. You shall see this man’s face when I accuse him — 
you shall see him humiliated, overthrown, exposed in his villany 
— the wretch ! You shall see how ” 

Corona’s strong voice interrupted her enemy’s invective in 
ringing tones. 

“Be silent !” she cried. “In twenty minutes he will be 
here. But if you say one word against him before he comes, I 
will lock you into this room and leave you. I certainly will not 
hear you.” 

Donna Tullia refiected that the Duchessa was in her own 
house, and moreover that she was not a woman to be trified 
with. She threw herself into a chair, and taking up a book 
that lay upon the table, she pretended to read. 

Corona remained seated by the fireplace, glancing at her 
from time to time. She was strangely inclined to laugh at the 
whole situation, which seemed to her absurd in the extreme — 
for it never crossed her mind to believe that there was a word 
of truth in the accusation against Giovanni. Nevertheless she 


SARACINESCA. 


255 


was puzzled to account for Donna Tullia’s assurance, and 
especially for her readiness to face the man she so calumniated. 
A quarter of an hour elapsed in this armed silence— the two 
women glancing at each other from time to time, until the dis- 
tant sound of wheels rolling under the great gate announced 
that the messenger had returned from the Palazzo Saracinesca, 
probably conveying Don Giovanni and his father. 

Then you have made up your mind to the humiliation of 
the man you love ? asked Donna Tullia, looking up from her 
book with a sneer on her face. 

Corona vouchsafed no answer, but her eyes turned towards 
the door in expectation. Presently there were steps heard 
without. The servant entered, and announced Prince Sara- 
cinesca and Don Giovanni. Corona rose. The old man came 
in first, followed by his son. 

‘ ^ An unexpected pleasure,” he said, gaily. Such good 
luck ! We were both at home. Ah, Donna Tullia,” he cried, 
seeing Madame Mayer, how are you ? ” Then seeing her 
face, he added, suddenly, Is anything the matter ? ” 

Meanwhile Giovanni had entered, and stood by Coronals 
side near the fireplace. He saw at once that something was 
wrong, and he looked anxiously from the Duchessa to Donna 
Tullia. Corona spoke at once. 

Donna Tullia,” she said, quietly, “ I have the honour to 
offer you an opportunity of explaining yourself.” 

Madame Mayer remained seated by the table, her face red 
with anger. She leaned back in her seat, and half closing her 
eyes with a disagreeable look of contempt, she addressed Gio- 
vanni. 

I am sorry to cause you such profound humiliation,” she 
began, “but in the interest of the Duchessa d’Astrardente I 
feel bound to speak. Don Giovanni, do you remember Aquila ? ” 

“ Certainly,” he replied, coolly — “ I have often been there. 
What of it ? ” 

Old Saracinesca stared from one to the other. 

What is this comedy ? ” he asked of Corona. But she 
nodded to him to be silent. 

“ Then you doubtless remember Felice Baldi — poor Felice 
Baldi,” continued Donna Tullia, still gazing scornfully up at 
Giovanni from where she sat. 

“ I never heard the name, that I can remember,” answered 
Giovanni, as though trying to recall some memory of the past. 
He could not imagine what she was leading to, but he was will- 
ing to answer her questions. 

“You do not remember that you were married to her at 
Aquila on the 19th of J une ? ” 

« X — married ? ” cried Giovanni, in blank astonishment. 


256 


SARACIKESCA. 


^‘Signora Duchessa/^ said the Prince, bending his heavy 
brows, what is the meaning of all this ? ” 

I will tell you the meaning of it,^^ said Donna Tullia, in 
low hissing tones, and rising suddenly to her feet she assumed 
a somewhat theatrical attitude as she pointed to Giovanni. I 
will tell what it means. It means that Don Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca was married in the church of San Bernardino, at 
Aquila, on the 19th of June 1863, to the woman Felice Baldi — 
who is his lawful wife to-day, and for aught we know the 
mother of his children, while he is here in Eome attempting 
to marry the Duchessa d^Astrardente — can he deny it ? Can 
he deny that his own signature is there, there in the office of the 
Stato Civile at Aquila, to testify against him ? Can he ? 

Silence ! ” roared the Prince. Silence, woman, or by God 
in heaven I will stop your talking for ever ! He made a step 
towards her, and there was a murderous red light in his black 
eyes. But Giovanni sprang forward and seized his father by 
the wrist. 

‘^You cannot silence me,^^ screamed Donna Tullia. “I will 
be heard, and by all Rome. I will cry it upon the housetops 
to all the world 

Then you will precipitate your confinement in the asylum 
of Santo Spirito,^^ said Giovanni, in cold, calm tones. “You 
are clearly mad.'’’ 

“ So I said,” assented Corona, who was nevertheless pale, and 
trembling with excitement. 

“ Allow me to speak with her,” said Giovanni, who, like 
most dangerous men, seemed to grow cold as others grew hot. 
Donna Tullia leaned upon the table, breathing hard between 
her closed teeth, her face scarlet. 

“ Madame,” said Giovanni, advancing a step and confronting 
her, “ you say that I am married, and that I am contemplat- 
ing a monstrous crime. Upon what do you base your extraor- 
dinary assertions ? ” 

“ Upon attested copies of your marriage certificate, of the 
civil register where your handwriting has been seen and recog- 
nised. What more would you have ? ” 

“It is monstrous ! ” cried the Prince, advancing again. “ It 
is the most abominable lie ever concocted ! My son married 
without my knowledge, and to a peasant ! Absurd ! ” 

But Giovanni waved his father back, and kept his place 
before Donna Tullia. 

“ I give you the alternative of producing instantly those proofs 
you refer to,” he said, “and which you certainly cannot pro- 
duce, or of waiting in this house until a competent physician 
has decided whether you are sufficiently sane to be allowed to 
go home ulone/^ 


SAEACIKESCA. 


257 


Donna Tnllia hesitated. She was in a terrible position, for 
Del Ferice had left Kome suddenly, and though the papers 
were somewhere in his house, she knew not where, nor how to 
get at them. It was impossible to imagine a situation more 
desperate, and she felt it as she looked round and saw the pale 
dark faces of the three resolute persons whose anger she had 
thus roused. She believed that Giovanni was capable of any- 
thing, but she was astonished at his extraordinary calmness. 
She hesitated for a moment. 

That is perfectly just,^’ said Corona. “If you have proofs, 
you can produce them. If you have none, you are insane.^' 

“ I have them, and I will produce them before this hour to- 
morrow,^^ answered Donna Tullia, not knowing how she should 
get the papers, but knowing that she was lost if she failed to 
obtain them. 

“Why not to-day — at once?” asked Giovanni, with some scorn. 

“ It will take twenty-four hours to forge them,” growled his 
father. 

“ You have no right to insult me so grossly,” cried Donna 
Tullia. “ But beware — I have you in my power. By this time 
to-morrow you shall see with your own eyes that I speak the 
truth. Let me go,” she cried, as the old Prince placed himself 
between her and the door. 

“ I will,” said he. “ But before you go, I beg you to observe 
that if between now and the time you show us these documents 
you breathe abroad one word of your accusations, I will have 
you arrested as a dangerous lunatic, and lodged in Santo Spirito ; 
and if these papers are not authentic, you will be arrested to- 
morrow afternoon on a charge of forgery. You quite under- 
stand me ? ” He stood aside to let her pass. She laughed 
scornfully in his face, and went out. 

When she was gone the three looked at each other, as though 
trying to comprehend what had happened. Indeed, it was be- 
yond their comprehension. Corona leaned against the chim- 
neypiece, and her eyes rested lovingly upon Giovanni. No 
doubt had ever crossed her mind of his perfect honesty. Old 
Saracinesca looked from one to the other for a moment, and 
then, striking the palms of his hands together, turned and be- 
gan to walk up and down the room. 

“ In the first place,” said Giovanni, “ at the time she men- 
tions I was in Canada, upon a shooting expedition, with a party 
of Englishmen. It is easy to prove that, as they are all alive 
and well now, so far as I have heard. Donna Tullia is clearly 
out of her mind.” 

“The news of your engagement has driven her mad,” said 
the old Prince, with a grim laugh. “ It is a very interesting 
and romantic case.” 


258 


SARACINESCA. 


Corona, blushed a little, and her eyes sought Giovanni^s, but 
her face was very grave. It was a terrible thing to see a person 
she had known so long becoming insane, and for the sake of 
the man she herself so loved. And yet she had not a doubt of 
Donna Tullia^s madness. It was very sad. 

“ I wonder who could have put this idea into her head,” said 
Giovanni, thoughtfully. It does not look like a creation of 
her own brain. I wonder, too, what absurdities she will pro- 
duce in the way of documents. Of course they must be 
forged.” 

‘‘ She will not bring them,” returned his father, in a tone of 
certainty. ‘^We shall hear to-morrow that she is raving in the 
delirium of a brain-fever.” 

Poor thing ! ” exclaimed Corona. It is dreadful to think 
of it.” 

It is dreadful to think that she should have caused you all 
this trouble and annoyance,” said Giovanni, warmly. ^^You 
must have had a terrible scene with her before we came. What 
did she say ? ” 

“ Just what she said to you. Then she began to rail against 
you ; and I sent for you, and told her that unless she could be 
silent I would lock her up alone until you arrived. So she sat 
down in that chair, and pretended to read. But it was an im- 
mense relief when you came ! ” 

“ You did not once believe what she said might possibly be 
true ? ” asked Giovanni, with a loving look. 

I ? How could you ever think it ! ” exclaimed Corona. 
Then she laughed, and added, But of course you knew that I 
would not.” 

Indeed, yes,” he answered. It never entered my head.” 

“ By-the-bye,” said old Saracinesca, glancing at the Du- 
chessa^s black bonnet and gloved hands, you must have been 
just ready to go out when she came — we must not keep you. I 
suppose that when she said she would bring her proofs to- 
morrow at this hour, she meant she would bring them here. 
Shall we come to-morrow then ? ” 

“ Yes — by all means,” she answered. “ Come to breakfast at 
one o'clock. I am alone, you know, for Sister Gabrielle has in- 
sisted upon going back to her community. But what does it 
matter now ? ” 

‘‘ What does it matter ?” echoed the Prince. “You are to be 
married so soon. I really think we can do as we please.” He . 
generally did as he pleased. 

The two men left her, and a few minutes later she descended 
the steps of the palace and entered her carriage, as though 
nothing had happened. 

Six months had passed since she had given her troth to Gio- 


SARACINESCA. 


250 


vanni upon the tower of Saracinesca, and she knew that slie 
loved him better now than then. Little had happened of in- 
terest in the interval of time, and the days had seemed long. 
But until after Christmas she had remained at Astrardente, 
busying herself constantly with the improvements she had 
already begun, and aided by the counsels of Giovanni. He had 
taken a cottage of hers in the lower part of her village, and had 
fitted it up with the few comforts he Judged necessary. In 
this lodging he had generally spent half the week, going daily 
to the palace upon the hill and remaining for long hours in 
Coronals society, studying her plans and visiting with her the 
works which grew beneath their joint direction. She had 
grown to know him as she had not known him before, and to 
understand more fully his manly character. He was a very 
resolute man, and very much in earnest when he chanced to be 
doing anything; but the strain of melancholy which he inher- 
ited from his mother made him often inclined to a sort of con- 
templative idleness, during which his mind seemed preoccupied 
with absorbing thoughts. Many people called his fits of silence 
an affectation, or part of his system for rendering himself inte- 
resting; but Corona soon saw how real was his abstraction, and 
she saw also that she alone was able to attract his attention and 
interest him when the fit was upon him. Slowly, by a gradual 
study of him, she learned what few had ever guessed, namely, 
that beneath the experienced man of the world, under his 
modest manner and his gentle ways, there lay a powerful main- 
spring of ambition, a mine of strength, which would one day 
exert itself and make itself felt upon his surroundings. He had 
developed slowly, feeding upon many experiences of the world in 
many countries, his quick Italian intelligence comprehending 
often more than it seemed to do, while the quiet dignity he got 
from his Spanish blood made him appear often very cold. But 
now and again, when under the influence of some large idea, 
his tongue was loosed in the charm of Coronals presence, and 
he spoke to her, as he had never spoken to any one, of projects 
and plans which should make the world move. She did not 
always understand him wholly, but she knew that the man she 
loved was something more than the world at large believed 
him to be, and there was a thrill of pride in the thought which 
delighted her inmost soul. She, too, was ambitious, but her 
ambition was all for him. She felt that there was little room 
for common aspirations in his position or in her own. All that 
high birth, and wealth, and personal consideration could give, 
they both had abundantly, beyond their utmost wishes; any- 
thing they could desire beyond that must lie in a larger sphere 
of action than mere society, in the world of political power. 
She herself had had dreams, and entertained them still, of 


260 


SARACINESCA. 


founding some great institution of charity, of doing something 
for her poorer fellows. But she learned by degrees that Gio- 
vanni looked further than to such ordinary means of employing 
power, and that there was in him a great ambition to bring 
great forces to bear upon great questions for the accomplish- 
ment of great results. The six months of her engagement to 
him had not only strengthened her love for him, already deep 
and strong, but had implanted in her an unchanging determina- 
tion to second him in all his life, to omit nothing in her power 
which could assist him in the career he should choose for him- 
self, and which she regarded as the ultimate field for his ex- 
traordinary powers. It was strange that, while granting him 
everything else, people had never thought of calling him a man 
of remarkable intelligence. But no one knew him as Corona 
knew him; no one suspected that there was in him anything 
more than the traditional temper of the Saracinesca, with suffi- 
cient mind to make him as fair a representative of his race as 
his father was. 

There was more than mere love and devotion in the complete 
security she felt when she saw him attacked by Donna Tullia; 
there was already the certainty that he was born to be above 
small things, and to create a sphere of his own in which he 
would move as other men could not. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

When Donna Tullia quitted the Palazzo Astrardente her head 
swam. She had utterly failed to do what she had expected; 
and from being the accuser, she felt that she was suddenly 
thrust into the position of the accused. Instead of inspiring 
terror in Corona, and causing Giovanni the terrible humiliation 
she had supposed he would feel at the exposure of his previous 
marriage, she had been coldly told that she was mad, and that 
her pretended proofs were forgeries. Though she herself felt 
no doubt whatever concerning the authenticity of the docu- 
ments, it was very disappointing to find that the first mention 
of them produced no startling effect upon any one, least of all 
upon Giovanni himself. The man, she thought, was a most 
accomplished villain; since he was capable of showing such 
hardened indifference to her accusation, he was capable "also of 
thwarting her in her demonstration of their truth — and she 
trembled at the thought of what she saw. Old Saracinesca was 
not a man to be trifled with, nor his son either: they were 
powerful, and would be revenged for the insult. But in the 
meanwhile she had promised to produce her proofs ; and when 
she regained enough composure to consider the matter from all 
its points, she came to the conclusion that after all her game 


SARACINESCA. 


261 


was not lost, seeing that attested documents are evidence not 
easily refuted, even by powerful men like Leone and Giovanni 
Saracinesca. She gradually convinced herself that their indif- 
ference w^as a pretence, and that they were accomplices in the 
matter, their object being to gain Corona with all her fortune 
for Giovanni’s wife. But, at the same time, Donna Tullia felt 
in the depths of her heart a misgiving: she was clever enough 
to recognise, even in spite of herself, the difference between a 
liar and an honest man. 

She must get possession of these papers — and immediately 
too ; there must be no delay in showing them to Corona, and in 
convincing her that this was no mere fable, but an assertion 
founded upon very substantial evidence. Del Ferice was sud- 
denly gone to Naples: obviously the only way to get at the 
papers was to bribe his servant to deliver them up. Ugo had 
once or twice mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from 
the few words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, 
who would sell his soul for money. Madame Mayer drove home, 
and put on the only dark-coloured gown she possessed, wound 
a thick veil about her head, provided herself with a number of 
bank-notes, which she thrust between the palm of her hand and 
her glove, left the house on foot, and took a cab. There was 
nothing to be done but to go herself, for she could trust no one. 
Her heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow stone steps of 
Del Ferice’s lodging, and stopped upon the landing before the 
small green door, whereon she read his name. She pulled the 
bell, and Temistocle appeared in his shirt-sleeves. 

Does Count Del Ferice live here ? ” asked Donna Tullia, 
peering over the man’s shoulder into the dark and narrow pas- 
sage within. 

‘^He lives here, but he is gone to Naples,” answered Temis- 
tocle, promptly. 

‘^When will he be back?” she inquired. The man raised 
his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms of his hands 
to signify that he did not know. Donna Tullia hesitated. She 
had never attempted to bribe anybody in her life, and hardly 
knew how to go about it. She thought that the sight of the 
money might produce an impression, and she withdrew a bank- 
note from the hollow of her hand, spreading it out between her 
fingers. Temistocle eyed it greedily. 

“ There are twenty-five scudi,” she said. If you will help 
me to find a piece of paper in your master’s room, you shall 
have them.” 

Temistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride. Ma- 
dame Mayer looked at him. 

Impossible, signora,” he said. Then she drew out another. 
Temistocle eyed the glove curiously to see if it contained more. 


262 


SARACINESCA. 


“ Signora/^ he repeated, it is impossible. My master would 
kill me. 1 cannot think of it.^^ But his tone seemed to yield 
a little. Donna Tullia found another bank-note; there were 
now seventy-five scudi in her hand. She thought she saw 
Temistocle tremble with excitement. But still he hesitated. 

Signora, my conscience,” he said, in a low voice of protestation. 

“Come,” said Madame Mayer, impatiently, “there is another 
— there are a hundred scudi — that is all I have got,” she added, 
turning down her empty glove. 

Suddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the bank- 
notes eagerly. But instead of retiring to allow her to enter, 
he pushed roughly past her. 

“ You may go in,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and turning 
quickly, fied precipitately down the narrow steps, in his shirt- 
sleeves as he was. Madame Mayer stood for a moment looking 
after him in surprise, even when he had already disappeared. 

Then she turned and entered the door rather timidly; but 
before she had gone two steps in the dark passage, she uttered 
a cry of horror. Del Ferice stood in her way, wrapped in a 
loose dressing-gown, a curious expression upon his pale face, 
which from its whiteness was clearly distinguishable in the 
gloom. Temistocle had cheated her, had lied in telling her 
that his master was absent, had taken her bribe and had fled. 
He would easily find an excuse for having allowed her to enter; 
and with his quick valet^s instinct, he guessed that she would 
not confess to Del Ferice that she had bribed him. Ugo came 
forward a step and instantly recognised Madame Mayer. 

“Donna Tullia!” he cried, “what are you doing? You 
must not be seen here.” 

A less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be over- 
joyed at her coming. Del Ferice^s fine instincts told him that 
for whatever cause she had come — and he guessed the cause 
well enough — he would get a firmer hold upon her consideration 
by appearing to be shocked at her imprudence. Donna Tullia 
was nearly fainting with fright, and stood leaning against the 
wall of the passage. 

“ I thought — I — I must see you at once,” she stammered. 

“ Hot here,” he answered, quickly. “ Go home at once ; I will 
join you in five minutes. It will ruin you to have it known 
that you have been here.” 

Madame Mayer took courage at his tone. 

“ You must bring them — those papers,” she said, hurriedly. 
“ Something dreadful has happened. Promise me to come at 
once I ” 

“ I will come at once, my dear lady,” he said, gently pushing 
her towards the door. “ I cannot even go downstairs with you 
— forgive me. You have your carriage of course ?” 


SARACIN^ESCA. 


263 


I have a cab/' replied Donna Tiillia, faintly, submitting to 
be put out of the door. He seized her hand and kissed it pas- 
sionately, or with a magnificent semblance of passion. With a 
startled look, Donna Tullia turned and went rapidly down the 
steps. Del Ferice smiled softly to himself when she was gone, 
and went in again to exchange his dressing-gown for a coat. 
He had her in his power at last. He had guessed that she 
would betray the secret — that after the engagement became 
known, she would not be able to refrain from communicating 
it to Corona d'Astrardente ; and so soon as he heard the news, 
he had shut himself up in his lodging, pretending a sudden 
journey to Naples, determined not to set foot out of the house 
until he heard that Donna Tullia had committed herself. He 
knew that when she had once spoken she would make a des- 
perate attempt to obtain the papers, for he knew that such an 
assertion as hers would need to be immediately proved, at the 
risk of her position in society. His plot had succeeded so far. 
His only anxiety was to know whether she had mentioned his 
name in connection with the subject, but he guessed, from his 
knowledge of her character, that she would not do so : she 
would respect her oath enough to conceal his name, even while 
breaking her promise; she would enjoy taking the sole credit 
of the discovery upon herself, and she would shun an avowal 
which would prove her to have discussed with any one else the 
means of preventing the marriage, because it would be a con- 
fession of jealousy, and consequently of personal interest in 
Don Giovanni. Del Ferice was a very clever fellow. 

He put on his coat, and in five minutes was seated in a cab 
on his way to Donna Tullia's house, with a large envelope full 
of papers in his pocket. He found her as she had left him, 
her face still wrapped in a veil, walking up and down her 
drawing-room in great excitement. He advanced and saluted 
her courteously, maintaining a dignified gravity of bearing 
which he judged fitting for the occasion. 

And now, my dear lady," he said, gently, will you tell me 
exactly what you have done ? " 

This morning," answered Madame Mayer, in a stifled voice, 
I heard of the Astrardente's engagement to Don Giovanni. 
It seemed such a terrible thing ! " 

Terrible, indeed," said Del Ferice, solemnly. 

I sent for you at once, to know what to do : they said you 
were gone to Naples. I thought, of course, that you would 
approve if you were here, because we ought to prevent such a 
dreadful crime — of course." She waited for some sign of 
assent, but Del Ferice's pale face expressed nothing but a sort 
of grave reproach. 

«And then," she continued, ‘'as I could not And you, I 


264 


SARACIKESCA. 


thought it was best to act at once, and so I went to see the As- 
trardente, feeling that you would entirely support me. There 
was a terrific scene. She sent for the two Saracinesca, and I — 
waited till they came, because I was determined to see justice 
done. I am sure I was right, — was I not ? 

What did they say ? ” asked Del Ferice, quietly watching 
her face. 

“ If you will believe it, that monster of villany, Don Gio- 
vanni, was as cold as stone, and denied the whole matter from 
beginning to end ; but his father was very angry. Of course 
they demanded the proofs. I never saw anything like the 
brazen assurance of Don Giovanni.” 

Did you mention me ? ” inquired Del Ferice. 

No, I had not seen you : of course I did not want to impli- 
cate you. I said I would show them the papers to-morrow at 
the same hour.” 

And then you came to see me,” said Del Ferice. That 
was very rash. You might have seriously compromised your- 
self. I would have come if you had sent for me.” 

“ But they said you had gone to Naples. Your servant,” 
continued Donna Tullia, blushing scarlet at the remembrance 
of her interview with Temistocle, — “ your servant assured me 
in person that you had gone to Naples ” 

I see,” replied Del Ferice, quietly. He did not wish to 
press her to a confession of having tried to get the papers in 
his absence. His object was to put her at her ease. 

My dear lady,” he continued, gently, ‘‘you have done an 
exceedingly rash thing ; but I will support you in every way, 
by putting the documents in your possession at once. It is 
unfortunate that you should have acted so suddenly, for we do 
not know what has become of this Felice Baldi, nor have we 
any immediate means of finding out. It might have taken 
weeks to find her. Why were you so rash ? You could have 
waited till I returned, and we could have discussed the matter 
carefully, and decided whether it were really wise to make use 
of my information.” 

“ You do .not doubt that I did right ?” asked Donna Tullia, 
turning a little pale. 

“ I think you acted precipitately in speaking without con- 
sulting me. All may yet be well. But in the first place, as 
you did not ask my opinion, you will see the propriety of not 
mentioning my name, since you have not done so already. It 
can do no good, for the papers speak for themselves, and what- 
ever value they may have is inherent in them. Do you see ? ” 

“ Of course, there is no need of mentioning you, unless you 
wish to have a share in the exposure of this abominable 
wickedness.” 


SARACINESCA. 


265 


I am satisfied with my share/" replied Del Ferice, with a 
quiet smile. 

“ It is not an important one/" returned Donna Tullia, ner- 
vously. 

“ It is the lion"s share/" he answered. Most adorable of 
women, you have not, I am sure, forgotten the terms of our 
agreement — terms so dear to me, that every word of them is 
engraven for ever upon the tablet of my heart."" 

Madame Mayer started slightly. She had not realised that 
her promise to marry Ugo was now due — she did not believe 
that he would press it; he had exacted it to frighten her, and 
besides, she had so persuaded herself that he would approve of 
her conduct, that she had not felt as though she were betraying 
his secret. 

You will not — you cannot hold me to that; you approve of 
telling the Astrardente, on the whole, — it is the same as though 
I had consulted you "" 

‘^Pardon me, my dear lady; you did not consult me,"" an- 
swered Del Ferice, soothingly. He sat near her by the fire, his 
hat upon his knee, no longer watching her, but gazi^ig contem- 
platively at the burning logs. There was a delicacy about his 
pale face since the wound he had received a year before which was 
rather attractive: from having been a little inclined to stout- 
ness, he had grown slender and more graceful, partly because 
his health had really been affected by his illness, and partly 
because he had determined never again to risk being too fat. 

'^I tried to consult you,"" objected Donna Tullia. “It is the 
same thing."" 

“It is not the same thing to me,"" he answered, “although 
you have not involved me in the affair. I would have most 
distinctly advised you to say nothing about it at present. You 
have acted rashly, have put yourself in a most painful situa- 
tion; and you have broken your promise to me — a very solemn 
promise, Donna Tullia, sworn upon the memory of your 
mother and upon a holy relic. One cannot make light of such 
promises as that."" 

“You made me give it in order to frighten me. The 
Church does not bind us to oaths sworn under compulsion/" 
she argued. 

“Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever. You 
wanted to know my secret, and for the sake of knowing it you 
bound yourself. That is not compulsion. I cannot compel 
you. I could not think of presuming to compel you to marry 
me now. But I can say to you that I am devotedly attached 
to you, that to marry you is the aim and object of my life, and 
if you refuse, I will tell you that you are doing a great wrong, 
repudiating a splemn contract 


266 


SAEACIN^ESCA. 


‘‘If I refuse — well — but you would give me the papers?^' 
asked Donna TulKa, who was beginning to tremble for the re- 
sult of the interview. She had a vague suspicion that, for the 
sake of obtaining them, she would even be willing to promise 
to marry Del Ferice. It would be very wrong, perhaps; but it 
would be for the sake of accomplishing good, by preventing 
Corona from falling into the trap— Corona, whom she hated ! 
Still, it would be a generous act to save her. The minds of 
women like Madame Mayer are apt to be a little tortuous when 
they find themselves hemmed in between their own jealousies, 
hatreds, and personal interests. 

“ If you refused — no ; if you refused, I am afraid I could not 
give you the papers,’^ replied Del Ferice, musing as he gazed 
at the fire. “ I love you too much to lose that chance of win- 
ning you, even for the sake of saving the Duchessa d’Astrar- 
dente from her fate. Why do you refuse ? why do you bar- 
gain ? he asked, suddenly turning towards her. “ Does all 
my devotion count for nothing — all my love, all my years of 
patient waiting ? Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to snatch the 
cup from my very lips ! It is not for the sake of these misera- 
ble documents : what is it to me whether Don Giovanni appears 
as the criminal in a case of bigamy — whether he is ruined now, 
as by his evil deeds he will be hereafter, or whether he goes on 
unharmed and unthwarted upon his career of wickedness ? He 
is nothing to me, nor his pale-faced bride either. It is for 
you that I care, for you that I will do anything, bad or good, 
to win you that I would risk my life and my soul. Can you 
not see it ? Have I not been faithful for very long ? Take 
pity on me — forget this whole business, forget that you have 
promised anything, forget all except that I am here at your 
feet, a miserable man, unless you speak the word, and turn all 
my wretchedness into joy!^^ 

He slipped from his seat and knelt upon one knee before her, 
clasping one of her hands passionately between both his own. 
The scene was well planned and well executed ; his voice had 
a ring of emotion that sounded pleasantly in Donna Tullia’s 
ears, and his hands trembled with excitement. She did not 
repulse him, being a vain woman and willing to believe in the 
reality of . the passion so well simulated. Perhaps, too, it was 
not wholly put on, for she was a handsome, dashing woman, in 
the prime of youth, and Del Ferice was a man who had always 
been susceptible to charms of that kind. Donna Tullia hesi- 
tated, wondering what more he could say. But he, on his part, 
knew the danger of trusting too much to eloquence when not 
backed by a greater strength than his, and he pressed her for 
an answer. 

“ Be generous — trust me,^^ he cried. “ Believe that your hap- 


SARACINESCA. 


267 


piuess is everything to me; believe that I will take no unfair 
advantage of a hasty promise. Tell me that, of your own free 
will, you will be my wife, and command me anything, that I 
may prove my devotion. It is so true, so honest,— Tullia, I 
adore you, I live only for you ! Speak the word, and make me 
the happiest of men!” 

He really looked handsome as he knelt before her, and she 
felt the light, nervous pressure of his hand at every word he 
spoke. After all, what did it matter ? She might accept him, 
and then — well, if she did not like the idea, she could throw 
him over. It would only cost her a violent scene, and a few 
moments of discomfort. Meanwhile she would get the papers. 

But you would give me the papers, would you not, and 

leave me to decide whether Keally, Del Ferice,” she said, 

interrupting herself with a nervous laugh, this is very absui’d.” 

I implore you not to speak of the papers — it is not absurd. 
It may seem so to you, but it is life or death to me : death if 
you refuse me — life if you will speak the word and be mine! ” 

Donna Tullia made up her mind. He would evidently not 
give her what she wanted, except in return for a promise of 
marriage. She had grown used to him, almost fond of him, in 
the last year. 

Well, I do not know whether I am right,” she said, “ but I 
am really very fond of you; tod if you will do all I say ” 

Everything, my dear lady; everything in the world I will 
do, if you will make me so supremely happy,” cried Del Ferice, 
ardently. 

“Then — yes; I will marry you. Only get up and sit upon 
your chair like a reasonable being. No ; you really must be rea- 
sonable, or you must go away.” Ugo was madly kissing her 
hands. He was really a good actor, if it was all acting. She 
could not but be moved by his pale delicate face and passionate 
words. With a quick movement he sprang to his feet and stood 
before her, clasping his hands together and gazing into her face. 

“Oh, I am the happiest man alive to-day!” he exclaimed, 
and the sense of triumph that he felt lent energy to his voice. 

“Do sit down,” said Donna Tullia, gaily, “ and let us talk it 
all over. In the first place, what am I to do first ? ” 

Del Ferice found it convenient to let his excitement subside, 
and as a preliminary he walked twice the length of the room. 

“It is so hard to be calm!” he exclaimed; but nevertheless 
he presently sat down in his former seat, and seemed to collect 
his faculties with wonderful ease. 

“ What is to be done first ? ” asked Donna Tullia again. 

“ In the first place,” answered Del Ferice, “ here are those 
precious papers. As they are notary’s copies themselves, and 
not the originals, it is of no importance whether Don Giovanni 


268 


SARACINESCA. 


tears them up or not. It is easy to get others if he does. I 
have noted down all the names and dates. I wish we had some 
information about Felice Baldi. It is very unfortunate that we 
have not, but it would perhaps take a month to find her.’^ 

“I must act at once,^^ said Donna Tullia, firmly; for she re- 
membered old Saracinesca^s threats, and was in a hurry. 

Of course. These documents speak for themselves. They 
bear the address of the notary who made the copies in Aquila. 
If the Saracinesca choose, they can themselves go there and see 
the originals.” 

“Could they not destroy those too?” asked Donna Tullia, 
nervously. 

“No; they can only see one at a time, and the person who 
will show them will watch them. Besides, it is easy to write 
to the curate of the church of San Bernardino to be on his 
guard. We will do that in any case. The matter is perfectly 
plain. Your best course is to meet the Astrardente to-morrow 
at the appointed time, and simply present these papers for in- 
spection. No one can deny their authenticity, for they bear 
the Government stamp and the notary’s seal, as you see, here 
and here. If they ask you, as they certainly will, how you 
came by them, you can afford to answer, that, since you have 
them, it is not necessary to know whence they came; that they 
may go and verify the originals ; and that in warning them of 
the fact, you have fulfilled a duty to society, and have done a 
service to the Astrardente, if not to Giovanni Saracinesca. 
You have them in your power, and you can afford to take the 
high hand in the matter. They must believe the evidence of 
their senses; and they must either allow that Giovanni’s first 
wife is alive, or they must account for her death, and prove it. 
There is no denial possible in the face of these proofs.” 

Donna Tullia drew a long breath, for the case seemed per- 
fectly clear; and the anticipation of her triumph already 
atoned for the sacrifice she had made. 

“ You are a wonderful man, Del Ferice ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ I do not know whether I am wise in promising to marry you, 
but I have the greatest admiration for your intellect.” 

Del Ferice glanced at her and smiled. Then he made as 
though he would return the papers to his pocket. She sprang 
towards him, and seized him by the wrist. 

“ Do not be afraid ! ” she cried, “ I will keep my promise.” 

“ Solemnly ? ” he asked, still smiling, and holding the enve- 
lope firmly in his hand. 

“Solemnly,” she answered; and then added, with a quick 
laugh, “but you are so abominably clever, that I believe you 
could make me marry you against my will.” 

“Never said Del Ferice, earnestly; “I love you far too 


SARACINESCA. 


269 


much.” He had wonderfully clear instincts. And now,” he 
continued, we have settled that matter; when shall the happy 
day be ? ” 

“ Oh, there is time enough to think of that,” answered Donna 
Tullia, with a blush that might have passed for the result of a 
coy shyness, but which was in reality caused by a certain annoy- 
ance at being pressed. 

‘‘ No,” objected Del Ferice, we must announce our engage- 
ment at once. There is no reason for delay — to-day is better 
than to-morrow.” 

“ To-day ? ” repeated Donna Tullia, in some alarm. 

Why not ? Why not, my dear lady, since you and I are 
both in earnest ? ” 

I think it would be much better to let this affair pass first.” 

‘^On the contrary,” he argued, ‘'from the moment we are 
publicly engaged I become your natural protector. If any one 
offers you any insult in this matter, I shall then have an 
acknowledged right to avenge you — a right I dearly covet. 
Do you think I would dread to meet Don Giovanni again ? 
He wounded me, it is true, but he has the marks of my sword 
upon his body also. Give me at once the privilege of appear- 
ing as your champion, and you will not regret it. But if you 
delay doing so, all sorts of circumstances may arise, all sorts of 
unpleasantness — who could protect you ? Of course, even in 
that case I would ; but you know the tongues of the gossips in 
Rome — it would do you harm instead of good.” 

“ That is true, and you are very brave and very kind. But 
it seems almost too soon,” objected Donna Tullia, who, how- 
ever, was fast learning to yield to his judgment. 

“Those things cannot be done too soon. It gives us liberty, 
and it gives the world satisfaction; it protects you, and it will 
be an inestimable pleasure to me. Why delay the inevitable ? 
Let us appear at once as engaged to be married, and you put a 
sword in my hand to defend you and to enforce your position 
in this unfortunate affair with the Astrardente.” 

“ Well, you may announce it if you please,” she answered, 
reluctantly. 

“Thank you, my dear lady,” said Del Ferice. “And here 
are the papers. Make the best use of them you can — any use 
that you make of them will be good, I know. How could it 
be otherwise ? ” 

Donna Tullia^s fingers closed upon the large envelope with a 
grasping grip, as though she would never relinquish that for 
which she had paid so dear a price. She had, indeed, at one 
time almost despaired of getting possession of them, and she 
had passed a terrible hour, besides having abased herself to the 
fruitless bribery she had practised upon Temistocle, But she 


270 


SARACINESCA. 


had gained her end, even at the expense of permitting Del 
Ferice to publish her engagement to marry him. She felt that 
she could break it off if she decided at last that the union was 
too distasteful to her ; but she foresaw that, from the point of 
worldly ambition, she would be no great loser by marrying a 
man of such cunning wit, who possessed such weapons against 
his enemies, and who, on the whole, as she believed, entirely 
sympathised with her view of life. She recognised that her 
chances of making a great match were diminishing rapidly; 
she could not tell precisely why, but she felt, to her mortifica- 
tion, that she had not made a good use of her rich widowhood : 
people did not respect her much, and as this touched her vanity, 
she was susceptible to their lack of deference. She had done 
no harm, but she knew that every one thought her an irre- 
sponsible woman, and the thrifty Romans feared her extrava- 
gance, though -some of them perhaps courted her fortune: 
many had admired her, and had to some extent expressed their 
devotion, but no scion of all the great families had asked her 
to be his wife. The nearest approach to a proposal had been 
the doubtful attention she had received from Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca during the time when his headstrong father had almost 
persuaded him to marry her, and she thought of her disap- 
pointed hopes with much bitterness. To destroy Giovanni by 
the revelations she now proposed to make, to marry Del Ferice, 
and then to develop her position by means of the large fortune 
she had inherited from her first husband, seemed on the whole 
a wise plan. Del Ferice’s title was not much, to be sure, but, 
on the other hand, he was intimate with every one she knew, 
and for a few thousand scudi she could buy some small estate 
with a good title attached to it. She would then change her 
mode of life, and assume the pose of a social power, which as a 
young widow she could not do. It was not so bad, after all, 
especially if she could celebrate the first day of her engagement 
by destroying the reputation of Giovanni Saracinesca, root and 
branch, and dealing a blow at Corona’s happiness from which 
it would not recover. 

As for Del Ferice, he regarded his triumph as complete. He 
cared little what became of Giovanni — whether he was able to 
refute the evidence brought against him or not. There had 
been nothing in the matter which was dishonest, and properly 
made out marriage-certificates are not easy things to annul. 
Giovanni might swim or sink — it was nothing to Ugo del 
Ferice, now that he had gained the great object of his life, and 
was at liberty to publish his engagement to Donna Tullia 
Mayer. He lost no time in telling his friends the good news, 
and before the evening was over a hundred people had con- 
gratulated him, Donna Tullia, too, appeared in more than 


SARACINESCA. 


271 


nsually^ gay attire, and smilingly received the expressions of 
good wishes which were showered upon her. She was not in- 
clined to question the sincerity of those who spoke, for in her 
present mood the stimulus of a little popular noise was soothing 
to her nerves, which had been badly strained by the excitement 
of the day. When she closed her eyes she had evil visions of 
Temistocle retreating at full speed down the stairs with his 
unearned bribe, or of Del Fence's calm, pale face, as he had sat 
in her house that afternoon grasping the precious documents 
in his hand until she promised to pay the price he asked, which 
was herself. But she smiled at each new congratulation readily 
enough, and said in her heart that she would yet become a great 
power in society, and make her house the centre of all attrac- 
tions. And meanwhile she pondered on the title she should 
buy for her husband : she came of high blood herself, and she 
knew how such dignities as a “ principe ” or a duca " were 
regarded when bought. There was nothing for it but to find 
some snug little marquisate — ^^marchese" sounded very well, 
though one could not be called eccellenza " by one's servants ; 
still, as the daughter of a prince, she might manage even that. 

Marchese " — yes, that would do. What a pity there were only 
four canopy" marquises — ^^marchesi del baldacchino" — in 
Rome with the rank of princes ! That was exactly the combi- 
nation of dignities Donna Tullia required for her husband. 
But once a ^^marchese," if she was very charitable, and did 
something in the way of a public work, the Holy Father might 
condescend to make Del Ferice a ‘‘duca" in the ordinary 
course as a step in the nobility. Donna Tullia dreamed many 
things that night, and she afterwards accomplished most of 
them, to the surprise of everybody, and, if the truth were told, 
to her own considerable astonishment. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Giovanni, you are the victim of some outrageous plot," said 
old Saracinesca, entering his son's room on the following morn- 
ing. I have thought it all out in the night, and I am con- 
vinced of it." 

Giovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in his hand 
and a cigar between his lips. He looked up quietly from his 
reading. 

I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be," he answered ; 
^‘but it is evident that there is something at the bottom of this 
besides Madame Mayer's imagination. I will find out." 

^‘What pleases me especially," remarked the old Prince, is 
the wonderful originality of the idea. It would have been com- 
monplace to make out that you had poisoned half-a-dozen wives. 


272 


SAEACINESCA. 


and buried their bodies in the vaults of Saracinesca; it would 
have been banal to say that you were not yourself, but some 
one else; or to assert that you were a revolutionary agent in 
disguise, and that the real Giovanni had been murdered by you, 
who had taken his place without my discovering it, — very com- 
monplace all that. But to say that you actually have a living 
wife, and to try to prove it by documents, is an idea worthy of 
a great mind. It takes one’s breath away.” 

Giovanni laughed. 

It will end in our having to go to Aquila in search of my 
supposed better half,” he said. Aquila, of all places ! If she 
had said Paris — or even Florence — but why, in the name of 
geography, Aquila?” 

She probably looked for some out-of-the-way place upon an 
alphabetical list,” laughed the Prince. ‘‘Aquila stood first. 
We shall know in two hours — come along. It is time to be 
going.” 

They found Corona in her boudoir. She had passed an un- 
easy hour on the previous afternoon after they had left her, but 
her equanimity was now entirely restored. She had made up 
her mind that, however ingenious the concocted evidence might 
turn out to be, it was absolutely impossible to harm Giovanni 
by means of it. His position was beyond attack, as, in her 
mind, his character was above slander. Far from experiencing 
any sensation of anxiety as to the result of Donna Tullia’s 
visit, what she most felt was curiosity to see what these fancied 
proofs would be like. She still believed that Madame Mayer 
was mad. 

“I have been remarking to Giovanni upon Donna Tullia’s 
originality,” said old Saracinesca. “It is charming; it shows a 
talent for fiction which the world has been long in realising, 
which we have not even suspected — an amazing and transcen- 
dent genius for invention.” 

“ It is pure insanity,” answered Corona, in a tone of convic- 
tion. “ The woman is mad.” 

“ Mad as an Englishman,” asseverated the Prince, using the 
most powerful simile in the Italian language. “We will have 
her in Santo Spirito before night, and she will puzzle the doc- 
tors.” 

“ She is not mad,” said Giovanni, quietly. “I do not even 
believe we shall find that her documents are forgeries.” 

“ What ? ” cried his father. Corona looked quickly at Gio- 
vanni. 

“ You yourself,” said the latter, turning to old Saracinesca, 
“ were assuring me half an hour ago that I was the victim of a 
plot. Now, if anything of the kind is seriously attempted, you 
may be sure it will be well done. She has a good ally in the 


SAEACINESCA. 




man to whom she is engaged. Del Ferice is no fool, and he 
hates me.’^ 

‘^Del Ferice! ” exclaimed Corona, in surprise. As she went 
nowhere as yet, she had, of course, not heard the news which 
had been published on the previous evening. '‘You do not 
mean to say that she is going to marry Del Ferice ? 

"Yes, indeed,’" said Giovanni. "They both appeared last 
night and announced the fact, and received everybody’s con- 
gratulations. It is a most appropriate match.” 

" I agree with you — a beautiful triangular alliteration of wit, 
wealth, and wickedness,” observed the Prince. " He has brains, 
she has money, and they are both as bad as possible.” 

"I thought you used to like Donna Tullia,” said Corona, 
suppressing a smile. 

" I did,” said old Saracinesca, stoutly. " I wanted Giovanni 
to marry her. It has pleased Providence to avert that awful 
catastrophe. I liked Madame Mayer because she was rich and 
noisy and good-looking, and I thought that, as Giovanni’s wife, 
she would make the house gay. We are such a pair of solemn 
bears together, that it seemed appropriate that somebody should 
make us dance. It was a foolish idea, I confess, though I 
thought it very beautiful at the time. It merely shows how 
liable we are to make mistakes. Imagine Giovanni married to 
a lunatic ! ” 

" I repeat that she is not mad,” said Giovanni. " I cannot 
tell how they have managed it, but I am sure it has been 
managed well, and will give us trouble. You will see.” 

" I do not understand at all how there can be any trouble 
about it,” said Corona, proudly. " It is perfectly simple for us 
to tell the truth, and to show that what they say is a lie. You 
can prove easily enough that you were in Canada at the time. 
I wish it were time for her to come. Let us go to breakfast in 
the meanwhile.” 

The views taken by the three were characteristic of their 
various natures. The old Prince, who was violent of temper, 
and inclined always to despise an enemy in any shape, scoffed 
at the idea that there was anything to show ; and though his 
natural wit suggested from time to time that there was a plot 
against his son, his general opinion was, that it was a singular 
case of madness. He hardly believed Donna Tullia would 
appear at all; and if she did, he expected some extraordinary 
outburst, some pitiable exhibition of insanity. Corona, on the 
other hand, maintained a proud indifference, scorning to suppose 
that anything could possibly injure Giovanni in any way, loving 
him too entirely to admit that he was vulnerable at all, still less 
that he could possibly have done anything to give colour to the 
accusation brought against him. Giovanni alone of all the three 


274 


SARACIKESCA. 


foresaw that there wotild be trouble, and dimly guessed how the 
thing had been done ; for he did not fall into his father’s error 
of despising an enemy, and he had seen too much of the world 
not to understand that danger is often greatest when the appear- 
ance of it is least. 

Breakfast was hardly over when Donna Tullia was announced. 
All rose to meet her, and all looked at her with equal interest. 
She was calmer than on the previous day, and she carried a 
package of papers in her hand. Her red lips were compressed, 
and her eyes looked defiantly round upon all present. What- 
ever might he her faults, she was not a coward when brought 
face to face with danger. She was determined to carry the 
matter through, both because she knew that she had no other 
alternative, and because she believed herself to be doing a 
righteous act, which, at the same time, fully satisfied her desire 
for vengeance. She came forward boldly and stood beside the 
table in the midst of the room. Corona was upon one side of 
the fireplace, and the two Saracinesca upon the other. All 
three held their breath in expectation of what Donna Tullia was 
about to say; the sense of her importance impressed her, and 
her love of dramatic situations being satisfied, she assumed 
something of the air of a theatrical avenging angel, and her 
utterance was rhetorical. 

come here,” she said, “at your invitation, to exhibit to 
your eyes the evidence of what I yesterday asserted — the evi- 
dence of the monstrous crime of which I accuse that man.” 
Here she raised her finger with a gesture of scorn, and extend- 
ing her whole arm, pointed towards Giovanni. 

“ Madam,” interrupted the old Prince, “ I will trouble you to 
select your epithets and expressions with more care. Pray be 
brief, and show what you have brought.” 

“I will show it, indeed,” replied Donna Tullia, “and you 
shall tremble at what you see. When you have evidence of the 
truth of what I say, you may choose any language you please to 
define the action of your son. These documents,” she said, 
holding up the package, “ are attested copies made from the 
originals — the first two in the possession of the curate of the 
church of San Bernardino da Siena, at Aquila, the other in the 
office of the Stato Civile in the same city. As they are only 
copies, you need not think that you will gain anything by de- 
stroying them.” 

“ Spare your comments upon our probable conduct,” inter- 
rupted the Prince, roughly. Donna Tullia eyed him with a 
scornful glance, and her face began to grow red. 

“You may destroy them if you please,” she repeated; “but I 
advise you to observe that they bear the Government stamp and 
the notarial seal of Gianbattista Caldani, notary public in the 


SARACINESCA. 


275 


city of Aquila, and that they are, consequently, beyond all doubt 
genuine copies of genuine documents.” 

Donna Tullia proceeded to open the envelope and withdraw 
the three papers it contained. Spreading them out, she took 
up the first, which contained the extract from the curate's book 
of banns. It set forth that upon the three Sundays preceding 
the 19th of June 1863, the said curate had published, in the 
parish church of San Bernardino da Siena, the banns of marriage 
between Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi. Donna Tullia 
read it aloud. 

Giovanni could hardly suppress a laugh, it sounded so 
strangely. Corona herself turned pale, though she firmly be- 
lieved the whole thing to be an imposture of some kind. 

“ Permit me, madam,” said old Saracinesca, stepping forward 
and taking the paper from her hand. He carefully examined 
the seal and stamp. It is very cleverly done,” he said with a 
sneer; ‘^but there should be only one letter r in the name 
Saracinesca — here it is spelt with two ! Very clever, but a 
slight mistake ! Observe,” he said, showing the place to Donna 
Tullia. 

It is a mistake of the copyist,” she said, scornfully. “ The 
name is properly spelt in the other papers. Here is the copy of 
the marriage register. Shall I read it also ? ” 

“Spare me the humiliation,” said Giovanni, in quiet con- 
tempt. “ Spare me the unutterable mortification of discovering 
that there is another Giovanni Saracinesca in the world ! ” 

“ I could not have believed that any one could be so hard- 
ened,” said Donna Tullia. “ But whether you are humiliated or 
not by the evidence of your misdeeds, I will spare you nothing. 
Here it is in full, and you may notice that your name is spelt 
properly too.” 

She held up the document and then read it out — the copy of 
the curate's register, stating that on the I9th of June 1863 
Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi were united in holy 
matrimony in the church of San Bernardino da Siena. She 
handed the paper to the Prince, and then read the extract from 
the register of the Civil marriage and the notary's attestation to 
the signatures. She gave this also to old Saracinesca, and then 
folding her arms in a fine attitude, confronted the three. 

“Are you satisfied that I spoke the truth?” she asked, 
defiantly. 

“ The thing is certainly remarkably well done,” answered the 
old Prince, who scrutinised the papers with a puzzled air. 
Though he knew perfectly well that his son had been in Canada 
at the time of this pretended marriage, he confessed to himself 
that if such evidence had been brought against any other man. 
he would have believed it. 


276 


SARACIlirESCA. 


is a shameful fraud!” exclaimed Coroua, looking at the 
papers over the old man’s shoulder. 

“ That is a lie ! ” cried Donna Tullia, growing scarlet with 
anger. 

Do not forget your manners, or you will get into trouble,” 
said Giovanni, sternly. I see through the whole thing. There 
has been no fraud, and yet the deductions are entirely untrue. 
In the first place, Donna Tullia, how do you make the state- 
ments here given to coincide with the fact that during the 
whole summer of 1863 and during the early part of 1864 I was 
in Canada with a party of gentlemen, who are all alive to testify 
to the fact ? ” 

I do not believe it,” answered Madame Mayer, contemptu- 
ously. ‘‘ I would not believe your friends if they were here 
and swore to it. You will very likely produce witnesses to 
prove that you were in the arctic regions last summer, as the 
newspapers said, whereas every one knows now that you were at 
Saracinesca. You are exceedingly clever at concealing your 
movements, as we all know.” 

Giovanni did not lose his temper, but calmly proceeded to 
demonstrate his theory. 

" You will find that the courts of law will accept the evidence 
of gentlemen upon oath,” he replied, quietly. Moreover, as a 
further evidence, and a piece of very singular proof, I can pro- 
bably produce Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi themselves 
to witness against you. And I apprehend that the said Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca will vehemently protest that the said Felice 
Baldi is his wife, and not mine.” 

^‘You speak in wonderful riddles, but you will not deceive 
me. Money will doubtless do much, but it will not do what 
you expect.” 

“ Certainly not,” returned Giovanni, unmoved by her reply. 

Money will certainly not create out of nothing a second Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca, nor his circle of acquaintances, nor the police 
registers concerning him which are kept throughout the king- 
dom of Italy, very much as they are kept here in the Pontifical 
States. Money will do none of these things.” 

While he was speaking, his father and the Duchessa listened 
with intense interest. 

“ Donna Tullia,” continued Giovanni, '' I am willing to be- 
lieve from your manner that you are really sure that I am the 
man mentioned in your papers; but permit me to inform you 
that you have been made the victim’ of a shallow trick, probably 
by the person who gave those same papers into your hands, 
and suggested to you the use you have made of them.” 

‘‘I? I, the victim of a trick?” repeated Donna Tullia, 
frightened at last by his obstinately calm manner. 


SAKACII^ESCA. 


277 


“ Yes,” he replied. I know Aquila and the Ahrnzzi very 
well. It chances that although we, the Saracinesca of Rome, are 
not numerous, the name is not uncommon in that part of the 
country. It is the same with all our great names. There are 
Colonna, Orsini, Caetani all over the country — there are even 
many families bearing the name of the Medici, who are extinct. 
You know it as well as I, or you should know it, for I believe 
your mother was my father’s cousin. Has it not struck you 
that this same Giovanni Saracinesca herein mentioned, is sim- 
ply some low-born namesake of mine ?” 

Donna Tullia had grown very pale, and she leaned upon the 
table as though she were faint. The others listened breath- 
lessly. 

‘^I do not believe it,” said Madame Mayer, in a low and 
broken voice. 

“ Now I will tell you what I will do,” continued Giovanni. 
“ I will go to Aquila at once, and I daresay my father will ac- 
company me ” 

“ Of course I will,” broke in the old Prince. 

“ We will go, and in a fortnight’s time we will produce the 
whole history of this Giovanni Saracinesca, together with his 
wife and himself in his own person, if they are both alive; we 
will bring them here, and they will assure you that you have 
been egregiously deceived, played upon and put in a false posi- 
tion by — by the person who furnished you with these docu- 
ments. I wonder that any Roman of common-sense should 
not have seen at once the cause of this mistake.” 

“ I cannot believe it,” murmured Donna Tullia. Then rais- 
ing her voice, she added, “ Whatever may be the result of your 
inquiry, I cannot but feel that I have done my duty in this 
atfair. I do not believe in your theory, nor in you, and I shall 
not, until you produce this other man. I have done my 
duty ” 

“ An exceedingly painful one, no doubt,” remarked old Sara- 
cinesca. Then he broke into a loud peal of laughter. 

“ And if you do not succeed in your search, it will be my 
duty, in the interests of society, to put the matter in the hands 
of the police. Since you have the effrontery to say that those 
papers are of no use, I demand them back.” 

“Not at all, madam,” replied the Prince, whose laughter 
subsided at the renewed boldness of her tone. “ I will not give 
them back to you. I intend to compare them with the origi- 
nals. If there are no originals, they will serve very well to 
commit the notary whose seal is on them, and yourself, upon a 
well-founded indictment for forgery, wilful calumniation, and 
a whole list of crimes sufficient to send you to the galleys for 
life. If, on the other hand, the originals exist, they can be of 


278 


SAKACINESCA. 


no possible value to you, as you can send to Aquila and have 
fresh copies made whenever you please, as you yourself in- 
formed me.” 

Things were taking a bad turn for Donna Tullia. She be- 
lieved the papers to be genuine, but a fearful doubt crossed 
her mind that Del Ferice might possibly have deceived her by 
having them manufactured. Anybody could buy Government 
paper, and it would be but a simple matter to have a notary’s 
seal engraved. She was terrified at the idea, but there was no 
possibility of getting the documents back from the old Prince, 
who held them firmly in his broad brown hand. There was 
nothing to be done but to face the situation out to the end and go. 

As you please,” she said. It is natural that you should 
insult me, a defenceless woman trying to do what is right. It 
is worthy of your race and reputation. I will leave you to the 
consideration of the course you intend to follow, and I advise 
you to omit nothing which can help to prove the innocence of 
your son.” 

Donna Tullia bestowed one more glance of contemptuous 
defiance upoij the group, and brushed angrily out of the room. 

So much for her madness ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, when she 
was gone. I think I have got to the bottom of that affair.” 

‘‘ It seems so simple, and yet I never thought of it,” said 
Corona. How clever you are, Giovanni ! ” 

‘‘ There was not much cleverness needed to see through so 
shallow a trick,” replied Giovanni. I suspected it this morn- 
ing; and when I saw that the documents were genuine and all 
in order, I was convinced of it. This thing has been done by 
Del Ferice, I suppose in order to revenge himself upon me for 
nearly killing him in fair fight. It was a noble plan. With a 
little more intelligence and a little more pains, he could have 
given me great trouble. Certificates like those he produced, if 
they had come from a remote French village in Canada, would 
have given us occupation for some time.” 

‘‘I wish Donna Tullia joy of her husband,” remarked the 
Prince. “ He will spend her money in a year or two, and then 
leave her to the contemplation of his past extravagance. I 
wonder how he induced her to consent.” 

Many people like Del Ferice,” said Giovanni. ** He is 
popular, and has attractions.” 

How can you say that ! ” exclaimed Corona, indignantly. 
‘^You should have a better opinion of women than to think 
any woman could find attractions in such a man.” 

Nevertheless, Donna Tullia is going to marry him,” re- 
turned Giovanni. She must find him to her taste. I used 
to think she might have married Valdarno — he is so good- 
natured you know ! ” 


SAKACINESCA. 


279 


Giovanni spoke in a tone of reflection; the other two laughed. 

And now, Giovannino,^^ said his father, “ we must set out 
for Aquila, and find your namesake.'’’ 

“You will not really go?” asked Corona, with a look of dis- 
appointment. She could not bear the thought of being sepa- 
rated even for a day from the man she loved. 

“ I do not see that we can do anything else,” returned the 
Prince. “ I must satisfy myself whether those papers are for- 
geries or not. If they are, that woman must go to prison for 
them.” 

“ But she is our cousin — you cannot do that,” objected Gio- 
vanni. 

“ Indeed I will. I am angry. Do not try to stop me. Do 
you suppose I care anything for the relationship in comparison 
with repaying her for all this trouble ? You are not going to 
turn merciful, Giovanni ? I should not recognise you.” 

There was a sort of mournful reproach about the old 
Prince’s tone, as though he were reproving his son for having 
fallen from the paths of virtue. Corona laughed ; she was not 
hard-hearted, but she was not so angelic of nature as to be 
beyond feeling deep and lasting resentment for injuries re- 
ceived. At that moment the idea of bringing Donna Tullia to 
justice was pleasant. 

“ Well,” said Giovanni, “ no human being can boast of hav- 
ing ever prevented you from doing whatever you were deter- 
mined to do. The best thing that can happen will be, that you 
should find the papers genuine, and my namesake alive. I 
wish Aquila were Florence or Naples,” he added, turning to 
Corona; “ you might manage to go at the same time.” 

“ That is impossible,” she answered, sadly. “ How long will 
you be gone, do you think ? ” 

Giovanni did not believe that, if the papers were genuine, 
and if they had to search for the man mentioned in them, they 
could return in less than a fortnight. 

“ Why not send a detective — a sUrro ? ” suggested Corona. 

He could not accomplish anything,” replied the Prince. 
“ He would be at a great disadvantage there; we must go our- 
selves.” 

“Both?” asked Corona, regretfully, gazing at Giovanni’s face. 

“ It is my business,” replied the latter. “ I can hardly ask 
my father to go alone.” 

“ Absurd ! ” exclaimed the old Prince, resenting the idea that 
he needed any help to accomplish his mission. “ Do you think 
I need some one to take care of me, like a baby in arms ? I 
will go alone; you shall not come even if you wish it. Absurd, 
to talk of my needing anybody with me! I will show you 
what your father can do when hi« blood is up.” 


280 


SARACINESCA. 


Protestations were useless after that. The old man gi*ew 
angry at the opposition, and, regardless of all propriety, seized 
his hat and left the room, growling that he was as good as any- 
body, and a great deal better. 

Corona and Giovanni looked at each other when he was 
gone, and smiled. 

I believe my father is the best man alive,^^ said Giovanni. 
“ He would go in a moment if I would let him. I will go after 
him and bring him back — I suppose I ought.” 

suppose so,” answered Corona; but as they stood side by 
side, she passed her hand under his arm affectionately, and 
looked into his eyes. It was a very tender look, very loving 
and gentle — such a look as none but Giovanni had ever seen 
upon her face. He put his arm about her waist and drew her 
to him, and kissed her dark cheek. 

I cannot bear to go away and leave you, even for a day,” he 
said, pressing her to his side. 

“Why should you?” she murmured, looking up to him. 
“ Why should he go, after all ? This has been such a silly 
affair. I wonder if that woman thought that anything could 
ever come between you and me ? That was what made me 
think she was really mad.” 

“ And an excellent reason,” he answered. “ Anybody must 
be insane who dreams of parting us two. It seems as though a 
year ago I had not loved you at all.” 

“ I am so glad,” said Corona. “ Do you remember, last sum- 
mer, on the tower at Saracinesca, I told you that you did not 
know what love was ? ” 

“ It was true. Corona — I did not know. But I thought I 
did. I never imagined what the happiness of love was, nor 
how great it was, nor how it could enter into every thought.” 

“ Into every thought ? Into your great thoughts too ? ” 

“ If any thoughts of mine are great, they are so because you 
are the mainspring of them,” he answered. 

“Will it always be so ?” she asked. “You will be a very 
great man some day, Giovanni; will you always feel that I am 
something to you ? ” 

“ Always — more than anything to me, more than all of me 
together.” 

“ I sometimes wonder,” said Corona. “ I think I understand 
you better than I used to do. I like to think that you feel 
how I understand you when you tell me anything. Of course 
I am not clever like you, but I love you so much that just 
while you are talking I seem to understand everything. It is 
like a flash of light in a dark room.” 

Giovanni kissed her again. 

“ What makes you think that I shall be great. Corona ? No- 


SARACIKESCA. 


281 


body ever thinks I am even clever. My father would laugh at 
you, and say it is quite enough greatness to be born a Sara- 
cinesca. What makes you think it ? 

^ Corona stood up beside him and laid her delicate hand upon 
his thick, close-cut black hair, and gazed into his eyes. 

I know it,” she said. “ I know it, because I love you so. 
A man like you must be great. There is something in you 
that nobody guesses but I, that will amaze people some day — 
I know it.” 

“ I wonder if you could tell me what it is ? I wonder if it is 
really there at all ? ” said Giovanni. 

“ It is ambition,” said Corona, gi’avely. “ You are the most 
ambitious man I ever knew, and nobody has found it out.” 

“ I believe it is true. Corona,” said Giovanni, turning away 
and leaning upon the chimneypiece, his head supported on one 
hand. “I believe you are right. I am ambitious: if I only 
had the brains that some men have I would do great things.” 

“You are wrong, Giovanni. It is neither brains nor ambi- 
tion nor strength that you lack — it is opportunity.” 

“ They say that a man who has anything in him creates 
opportunities for himself,” answered Giovanni, rather sadly. 
“ I fear it is because I really have nothing in me that I can do 
nothing. It sometimes makes me very unhappy to think so. 
I suppose that is because my vanity is wounded.” 

“ Do not talk like that,” said Corona. “ You have vanity, 
of course, but it is of the large kind, and I call it ambition. It 
is not only because I love you better than any man was ever 
loved before that I say that. It is that I know it instinctively. 
I have heard you say that these are unsettled times. Wait; 
your opportunity will come, as it came often to your forefathers 
in other centuries.” 

“ I hardly think that their example is a good one,” replied 
Giovanni, with a smile. 

“They generally did something remarkable in remarkable 
times,” said Corona. “You will do the same. Your father, 
for instance, would not.” 

“ He is far more clever than I,” objected Giovanni. 

“ Clever ! It passes for cleverness. He is quick, active, a 
good talker, a man with a ready wit and a sharp answer — kind- 
hearted when the fancy takes him, cruel when he is so disposed 
— but not a man of great convictions or of great actions. You 
are very different from him.” 

“ Will you draw my portrait. Corona?” asked Giovanni. 

“ As far as I know you. You are a man quick to think and 
slow to make a decision. You are not brilliant in conversation 
— you see I do not flatter you; I am just. You have the very 
remarkable quality of growing cold when others grow hot, and 


282 


SARACINESCA. 


of keeping the full use of your faculties in any situation. 
When you have made a decision, you cannot be moved from it ; 
but you are open to conviction in argument. You have a great 
repose of manner, which conceals a very restless brain. All 
your passions are very strong. You never forgive, never for- 
get, and scarcely ever repent. Beneath all, you have an un- 
tamable ambition which has not yet found its proper field. 
Those are your qualities — and I love them all, and you more 
than them all.” 

Corona finished her speech by throwing her arms round his 
neck, and breaking into a happy laugh as she buried her face 
upon his shoulder. No one who saw her in the world would 
have believed her capable of those sudden and violent demon- 
strations — she was thought so very cold. 

When Giovanni reached home, he was informed that his 
father had left Rome an hour earlier by the train for Terni, 
leaving word that he had gone to Aquila. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

In those days the railroad did not extend beyond Terni in the 
direction of Aquila, and it was necessary to perform the journey 
of forty miles between those towns by diligence. It was late in 
the afternoon of the next day before the cumbrous coach rolled 
up to the door of the Locanda del Sole in Aquila, and Prince 
Saracinesca found himself at his destination. The red evening 
sun gilded the snow of the Gran Sasso dTtalia, the huge domed 
mountain that towers above the city of Frederick. The city 
itself had long been in the shade, and the spring air was sharp 
and biting. Saracinesca deposited his slender luggage with the 
portly landlord, said he would return for supper in half an hour, 
and inquired the way to the church of San Bernardino da Siena. 
There was no difficulty in finding it, at the end of the Corso — 
the inevitable Corso ” of every Italian town. The old gentle- 
man walked briskly along the broad, clean street, and reached the 
door of the church just as the sacristan was hoisting the heavy 
leathern curtain, preparatory to locking up for the night. 

“Where can I find the Padre Curato ?” inquired the Prince. 
The man looked at him but made no answer, and proceeded to 
close the doors with great care. He was an old man in a shabby 
cassock, with four days’ beard on his face, and he appeared to 
have taken snuff recently. 

“ Where is the Curator ? ” repeated the Prince, plucking him 
by the sleeve. But the man shook his head, and began turning 
the ponderous key in the lock. Two little ragged boys were 
playing a game upon the church steps, piling five chestnuts in 
a heap and then knocking them down with a small stone. 


SARACIKESCA. 


283 


One of them having upset the heap, desisted and came near 
the Prince. 

That one is deaf,” he said, pointing to the sacristan. Then 
running behind him he stood on tiptoe and screamed in his ear 
— Brutta hestia ! ” 

The sacristan did not hear, but caught sight of the urchin and 
made a lunge at him. He missed him, however, and nearly fell 
over. 

^'What education! — die educazione ! cried the old man, 
angrily. 

Meanwhile the little boy took refuge behind Saracinesca, and 
pulling his coat asked for a soldo. The sacristan calmly with- 
drew the key from the lock, and went away without vouchsafing 
a look to the Prince. 

“ He is deaf,” screamed the little hoy, who was now joined by 
his companion, and both in great excitement danced round the 
fine gentleman. 

Give me a soldo” they yelled together. 

“Show me the house of the Padre Curato,” answered the 
Prince, “ then I will give you each a soldo. Lesti ! Quick I ” 

Whereupon both the boys began turning cart-wheels on their 
feet and hands with marvellous dexterity. At last they subsided 
into a natural position, and led the way to the curate^s house, 
not twenty yards from the church, in a narrow alley. The 
Prince pulled the bell by the long chain which hung beside the 
open street door, and gave the boys the promised coppers. They 
did not leave him, however, but stood by to see what would 
happen. An old woman looked out of an upper window, and 
after surveying the Prince with care, called down to him — 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“ Is the Padre Curato at home ? ” 

“Of course he is at home,” screamed the old woman. “At 
this hour! ” she added, contemptuously. 

“ Ehbene — can I see him ? ” 

“ What ! is the door shut ? ” returned the hag. 

“No.” 

“ Then why donT you come up without asking ? ” The old 
woman’s head disappeared, and the window was shut with a 
clattering noise. 

“ She is a woman without education,” remarked one of the 
ragged boys, making a face towards the closed window. 

The Prince entered the door and stumbled up the dark stairs, 
and after some further palaver obtained admittance to the 
curate’s lodging. The curate sat in a room which appeared to 
serve as dining-room, living-room, and study. A small table was 
spread with a clean cloth, upon which were arranged a plate, a 
loaf of bread, a battered spoon, a knife, and a small measure of 


284 


SARACINESCA. 


thin-looking wine. A brass lamp with three wicks, one of which 
only was burning, shed a feeble light through the poor apart- 
ment. Against the wall stood a rough table with an inkstand and 
three or four mouldy books. Above this hung a little black cross 
bearing a brass Christ, and above this again a coloured print of 
San Bernardino of Siena. The walls were whitewashed, and 
perfectly clean, — as indeed was everything else in the room, — 
and there was a sweet smell of flowers from a huge pot of pinks 
which had been taken in for the night, and stood upon the 
stone sill within the closed window. 

The curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle face 
and soft brown eyes. He wore a threadbare cassock, carefully 
brushed; and from beneath his. three-cornered black cap his 
thin hair hung in a straight grey fringe. As the Prince entered 
the room, the old woman called over his shoulder to the priest 
an uncertain formula of introduction. 

“Don Paolo, <fe uno — there is one.” Then she retired, 
grumbling audibly. 

The priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered one 
of the two chairs to his visitor. With an apology, he replaced 
his cap upon his head, and seated himself opposite the Prince. 
There was much courteous simplicity in his manner. 

“ In what way can I serve you. Signore ? ” he asked. • 

“ These papers,” answered the Prince, drawing the famous 
envelope from his breast-pocket, “ are copies of certain docu- 
ments iu your keeping, relating to the supposed marriage of one 
Giovanni Saracinesca. With your very kind permission, I de- 
sire to see the originals.” 

The old curate bowed, as though giving his assent, and looked 
steadily at his visitor for a moment before he answered. 

“ There is nothing simpler, my good sir. You will pardon me, 
however, if I venture to inquire your name, and to ask you for 
what purpose you desire to consult the documents ? ” 

“ I am Leone Saracinesca of Kome ” 

The priest started uneasily. 

“A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca ?” he inquired. Then 
he added immediately, “ Will you kindly excuse me for one mo- 
ment ? ” and left the room abruptly. The Prince was consider- 
ably astonished, but he held his papers firmly in his hand, and 
did not move from his seat. The curate returned in a few 
seconds, bringing with him a little painted porcelain basket, 
much chipped and the worse for age, and which contained a 
collection of visiting-cards. There were not more than a score 
of them, turning brown with accumulated dust. The priest 
found one which was rather newer than the rest, and after care- 
fully adjusting a pair of huge spectacles upon his nose, he went 
over to the lamp and examined it. 


SARACI>rESCA. 


285 


Conte del Ferice/” he read slowly. ‘‘Do you happen 
to know that gentleman, my good sir ? he inquired, turning 
to the Prince, and looking keenly at him over his glasses. 

“ Certainly,” answered Saracinesca, beginning to understand 
the situation. “ I know him very well.” 

“Ah, that is good!” said the priest. “He was here two 
years ago, and had those same entries concerning Giovanni 
Saracinesca copied. Probably — certainly, indeed — the papers 
you have there are the very ones he took away with him. 
When he came to see me about it, he gave me this card.” 

“I wonder he did,” answered Saracinesca. 

“ Indeed,” replied the curate, after a moment^s thought, “ I 
remember that he came the next day — yes — and asked to have 
his card returned. But I could not find it for him. There 
was a hole in one of my pockets — it had slipped down. Car- 
mela, my old servant, found it a day or two later in the lining 
of my cassock. I thought it strange that he should have asked 
for it.” 

“ It was very natural. He wished you to forget his existence.” 

“ He asked me many questions about Giovanni,” said the 
priest, “ but I could not answer him at that time.” 

“ You could answer now ? ” inquired the Prince, eagerly. 

“Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to Gio- 
vanni ? You say you are from Pome ?” 

“ Let us understand each other. Signor Curato,” said Sara- 
cinesca. “ I see I had better explain the position. I am Leone 
Saracinesca, the prince of that name, and the head of the 
family.” The priest bowed respectfully at this intelligence. 
“ My only son lives with me in Kome — he is now there — and 
his name is Giovanni Saracinesca. He is engaged to be mar- 
ried. When the engagement became known, an enemy of the 
family attempted to prove, by means of these papers, that he 
was married already to a certain Felice Baldi. Now I wish to 
know who this Giovanni Saracinesca is, where he is, and how 
he comes to have my son^s name. I wish a certificate or some 
proof that he is not my son, — that he is alive, or that he is 
dead and buried.” 

The old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed his 
hands together in delight. 

“ My dear sir — your Excellency, I mean — I baptised Felice 
Baldi^s second baby a fortnight ago! There is nothing sim- 
pler ” 

“ I knew it ! ” cried the Prince, springing from his chair in 
great excitement ; “ I knew it ! Where is that baby ? Send and 
get the baby at once — the mother — the father — everybody ! ” 

“ Subito I At once — or come with me. I will show you the 
whole family together,” said the curate, in innocent delight. 


386 


SARACIITESCA. 


“ Splendid children they are, too. Carmel a, my cloak — 
shrigati, be quick! 

“ One momenV^ objected Saracinesca, as though suddenly 
recollecting something. One moment, Signor Ourato; who 
goes slowly goes safely. Where does this man come from, and 
how does he come by his name ? I would like to know some- 
thing about him before I see him.” 

“True,” answered the priest, resuming his seat. “I had 
forgotten. Well, it is not a long story. Giovanni Saracinesca 
is from Naples. You know there was once a branch of your 
family in the Neapolitan kingdom — at least so Giovanni says, 
and he is an honest fellow. Their title was Marchese di San 
Giacinto; and if Giovanni liked to claim it, he has a right to 
the title still.” 

“But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago,” ob- 
jected the Prince, who knew his family history very well. 

“ Giovanni says they were not. They were believed to be. 
The last Marchese di San Giacinto fought under Napoleon. 
He lost all he possessed — lands, money, everything — by confis- 
cation, when Ferdinand was restored in 1815. He was a rough 
man ; he dropped his title, married a peasants only daughter, 
became a peasant himself, and died obscurely in a village near 
Salerno. He left a son who worked on the farm and inherited 
it from his mother, married a woman in the village of some 
education, and died of the cholera, leaving his son, the present 
Giovanni Saracinesca. This Giovanni received a better educa- 
tion than his father had before him, improved his farm, began 
to sell wine and oil for exportation, travelled as far as Aquila, 
and met Felice Baldi, the daughter of a man of some wealth, 
who has since established an inn here. Giovanni loved her. I 
married them. He went back to Naples, sold his farm for a 
good price last year, and returned to Aquila. He manages his 
father-in-law’s inn, which is the second largest here, and drives 
a good business, having put his own capital into the enterprise. 
They have two children, the second one of which was born 
three weeks ago, and they are perfectly happy.” 

Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate. 

“ Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very 
singular story ? ” he inquired at last. 

“ AUro ! That was all his grandfather left — a heap of parch- 
ments. They seem to be in order — he showed them to me 
when I married him.” 

“ Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his 
grandfather reversed ? ” 

The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms 
of his hands, smiling incredulously. 

“ The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain 


SAKACINESCA. 


287 


patriots. There is no chance of getting them back. It is of 
little use to be a Marchese without property. What he pos- 
sesses is a modest competence; it is wealth, even, in his present 

E osition. For a nobleman it would be nothing. Besides, he is 
alf a peasant by blood and tradition.’^ 

He is not the only nobleman in that position, laughed 

Saracinesca. But are you aware 

He stopped short. He was going to say that if he himself 
and his son both died, the innkeeper of Aquila would become 
Prince Saracinesca. The idea shocked him, and he kept it to 
himself. 

“ After all,^^ he continued, “ the man is of my blood by direct 
descent. I would like to see him.” 

“ Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will present 
him to your Excellency,” said the priest. JDo you still wish 
to see the documents ? ” 

“ It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and see 
this new-found relation of mine.” 

Don Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering his 
guest from the room, led the way down-stairs. He carried a 
bit of wax taper, which he held low to the steps, frequently 
stopping and warning the Prince to be careful. It was night 
when they went out. The air was sharp and cold, and Sara- 
cinesca buttoned his greatcoat to his throat as he strode by the 
side of the old priest. The two walked on in silence for ten 
minutes, keeping straight down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. 
At last the curate stopped before a clean, new house, from the 
windows of which the bright light streamed into the street. 
Don Paolo motioned to the Prince to enter, and followed him 
in. A man in a white apron, with his arms full of plates, who 
was probably servant, butler, boots, and factotum to the estab- 
lishment, came out of the dining-room, which was to the left 
of the entrance, and which, to judge by the noise, seemed to be 
full of people. He looked at the curate, and then at the Prince. 

Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo mio” he said, suppos- 
ing the priest had brought a customer— ‘‘ very sorry; there is 
not a bed in the house.” 

“ That is no matter, Giacchino,” answered the curate. “We 
want to see Sor Giovanni for a moment.” The man disap- 
peared, and a moment later Sor Giovanni himself came down 
the passage. 

“ Favorisctty dear Don Paolo, come in.” And he bowed to 
the Prince as he opened the door which led into a small sitting- 
room reserved for the innkeepers family. 

When they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son^s 
namesake. He saw before him a man whose face and figure he 
long remembered with an instinctive dislike. Giovanni the 


288 


SARACIKESCA. 


innkeeper was of a powerful build. Two generations of peas- 
ant blood had given renewed strength to the old race. He* wasJ 
large, wdth large bones, vast breadth of shoulder, and massive? 
joints; lean withal, and brown of face, his high cheek-boness 
making his cheeks look hollow; clean shaved, his hair straight 
and black and neatly combed; piercing black eyes near to- 
gether, the heavy eyebrows joining together in the midst of his 
forehead; thin and cruel lips, now parted in a smile and show- 
ing a formidable set of short, white, even teeth; a prominent 
square jaw, and a broad, strong nose, rather unnaturally pointed, 
— altogether a striking face, one that would be noticed in a 
crowd for its strength, but strangely cunning in expression, and 
not without ferocity. Years afterwards Saracinesca remem- 
bered his first meeting with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did 
not wonder that his first impulse had been to dislike the man. 
At present, however, he looked at him with considerable curi- 
osity, and if he disliked him at first sight, he told himself that 
it was beneath him to show antipathy for an innkeeper. 

“ Sor Giovanni,^^ said the curate, “this gentleman is desirous 
of making your acquaintance.'’^ 

Giovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed 
politely, and looked inquiringly at his visitor. 

“ Signor Saracinesca,’’ said the Prince, “ I am Leone Sara- 
cinesca of Eome. I have just heard of your existence. We 
have long believed your family to be extinct — I am delighted 
to find it still represented, and by one who seems likely to per- 
petuate the name.” 

The innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker’s face, 
and looked long before he answered. 

“ So you are Prince Saracinesca,” he said, gravely. 

“ And you are the Marchese di San Giacinto,” said the Prince, 
in the same tone, holding out his hand frankly. 

“ Pardon me, — I am Giovanni Saracinesca, the innkeeper of 
Aquila,” returned the other. But he took the Prince’s hand. 
Then they all sat down. 

“ As you please,” said the Prince. “ The title is none the 
less yours. If you had signed yourself with it when you mar- 
ried, you would have saved me a vast deal of trouble; but on 
the other hand, I should not have been so fortunate as to meet 
you.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Giovanni. 

The Prince told his story in as few words as possible. 

“ Amazing ! extraordinary ! what a chance ! ” ejaculated the 
curate, nodding his old head from time to time while the 
^ Prince spoke, as though he had not heard it all before. The 
innkeeper said nothing until old Saracinesca had finished. 

“ I see how it was managed,” he said at last. “ When that 


SARACIN^ESCA. 


289 


gentleman was making inquiries, I was away. I had taken my 
wife back to Salerno, and my wife's father had not yet estab- 
lished himself in Aquila. Signor Del— what is his name ?" 

“ Del Ferice." 

“ Del Ferice, exactly. He thought we had disappeared, and 
were not likely to come back. Or else he is a fool." 

He is not a fool," said Saracinesca. He thought he was 
safe. It is all very clear now. AYell, Signor Marchese, or Sig- 
nor Saracinesca, I am very glad to have made your acquaint- 
ance. You have cleared up a very important question by re- 
turning to Aquila. It will always give me the greatest pleasure 
to serve you in any way I can." 

A thousand thanks. Anything I can do for you during 
your stay " 

You are very kind. I will hire horses and return to Terni 
to-night. My business in Rome is urgent. There is some sus- 
pense there in my absence." 

‘^You will drink a glass before going?" asked Giovanni; 
and without waiting for an answer, he strode from the room. 

And what does your Excellency think of your relation ? " 
asked the curate, when he was alone with the Prince. 

A terrible-looking fellow ! But " The Prince made a 

face and a gesture indicating a question in regard to the inn- 
keeper's character. 

“ Oh, do not be afraid," answered the priest. He is the 
most honest man alive." 

Of course," returned the Prince, politely, you have had 
many occasions of ascertaining that." 

Giovanni, the innkeeper, returned with a bottle of wine and 
three glasses, which he placed upon the table, and proceeded to 
fill. 

“ By the bye," said the Prince, “ in the excitement I forgot 
to inquire for your Signora. She is well, I hope ? " 

Thank you — she is very well," replied Giovanni, shortly. 

A boy, I have no doubt ? " 

A splendid boy," answered the curate. “ Sor Giovanni has 
a little girl, too. He is a very happy man." 

Your health," said the innkeeper, holding up his glass to 
the light. 

And yours," returned the Prince. 

“ And of all the Saracinesca family," said the curate, sipping 
his wine slowly. He rarely got a glass of old Lacrima, and he 
enjoyed it thoroughly. 

“ And now," said the Prince, “ I must be off. Many thanks 
for your hospitality. I shall always remember with pleasure 
the day when I met an unknown relation." 

“ The Albergo di Napoli will not forget that Prince Saraci- 


290 


SARACINESCA. 


iiesca has been its guest/’ replied Giovanni politely, a smile 
upon his thin lips. He shook hands with both his guests, and 
ushered them out to the door with a courteous bow. Before 
they had gone twenty yards in the street, the Prince looked 
back and caught a last glimpse of Giovanni’s towering figure, 
standing upon the steps with the bright light falling upon it 
from within. He remembered that impression long. 

At the door of his own inn he took leave of the good curate 
with many expressions of thanks, and with many invitations to 
the Palazzo Saracinesca, in case the old man ever visited Rome. 

I have never seen Rome, your Excellency,” answered the 
priest, rather sadly. I am an old man — I shall never see it 
now.” 

So they parted, and the Prince had a solitary supper of 
pigeons and salad in the great dusky hall of the Locanda del 
Sole, while his horses were being got ready for the long night- 
journey. 

The meeting and the whole clearing up of the curious diffi- 
culty had produced a profound impression upon the old Prince. 
He had not the slightest doubt but that the story of the curate 
was perfectly accurate. It was all so very probable, too. In 
the wild times between 1806 and 1815 the last of the Neapolitan 
branch of the Saracinesca had disappeared, and the rich and 
powerful Roman princes of the name had been quite willing to 
believe the Marchesi di San Giacinto extinct. They had not 
even troubled themselves to claim the title, for they possessed 
more than fifty of their own, and there was no chance of recov- 
ering the San Giacinto estate, already mortgaged, and more 
than half squandered at the time of the confiscation. That the 
rough soldier of fortune should have hidden himself in his na- 
tive country after the return of Ferdinand, his lawful king, 
against whom he had fought, was natur.'il enough; as it was 
also natural that, with his rough nature, he should accommo- 
date himself to a peasant’s life, and marry a peasant’s only 
daughter, with her broad acres of orange and olive and vine 
land ; for peasants in the far south were often rich, and their 
daughters were generally beautiful — a very different race from 
the starved tenants of the Roman Campagna. 

The Prince decided that the story was perfectly true, and he 
reflected somewhat bitterly that unless his son had heirs after 
him, this herculean innkeeper of Aquila was the lawful suc- 
cessor to his own title, and to all the Saracinesca lands. He 
determined that Giovanni’s marriage should not be delayed 
another day, and with his usual impetuosity he hastened back 
to Rome, hardly remembering that he had spent the previous 
night and all that day upon the road, and that he had another 
twenty-four hours of travel before him. 


SARACINESCA. 


291 


At dawn his carriage stopped at a little town not far from 
the papal frontier. Just as the vehicle was starting, a large 
man, muffled in a huge cloak, from the folds of which pro- 
truded the long brown barrel of a rifle, put his head into the 
window. The Prince started and grasped his revolver, which 
lay beside him on the seat. 

“ Good morning. Prince,” said the man. “ I hope you have 
slept well.” 

“ Sor Giovanni!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “Where 
did you drop from ? ” 

“ The roads are not very safe,” returned the innkeeper. “ So 
I thought it best to accompany you. Good-bye — huon viaggio ! ” 

Before, the Prince could answer, the carriage rolled off, the 
horses springing forward at a gallop. Saracinesca put his head 
out of the window, but his namesake had disappeared, and he 
rolled on towards Terni, wondering at the innkeeper^s anxiety 
for his safety. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Even old Saracinesca^s iron strength was in need of rest 
when, at the end of forty-eight hours, he again entered his 
son’s rooms, and threw himself upon the great divan. 

“ How is Corona?” was his first question. 

“ She is very anxious about you,” returned Giovanni, who 
was himself considerably disturbed. 

“ We will go and set her mind at rest as soon as I have had 
something to eat,” said his father. 

“ It is all right, then ? It was just as I said — a namesake ? ” 

“ Precisely. Only the namesake happens to be a cousin — 
the last of the San Giacinto, who keeps an inn in Aquila. I 
saw him, and shook hands with him.” 

“Impossible!” exclaimed Giovanni. “They are all ex- 
tinct ” 

“ There has been a resurrection,” returned the Prince. He 
told the whole story of his journey, graphically and quickly. 

“ That is a very extraordinary tale,” remarked Giovanni, 
thoughtfully. “So, if I die without children the innkeeper 
will be prince.” 

“ Precisely. And now, Giovanni, you must be married next 
week.” 

“As soon as you please — to-morrow if you like.” 

“ What shall we do with Del Ferice ? ” asked the old Prince. 

“Ask him to the wedding,” answered Giovanni, magnani- 
mously. 

“ The wedding will have to be a very quiet one, I suppose, re- 
marked his father, thoughtfully. “ The year is hardly over ” 


292 


SARACliTESCA. 


The more quiet the better, provided it is done quickly. Of 
course we must consult Corona at once.” 

Do you suppose I am going to fix the wedding-day without 
consulting her?” asked the old man. ^^For heaven^s sake 
order dinner, and let us be quick about it.” 

The Prince was evidently in a hurry, and moreover, he was 
tired and very hungry. An hour later, as both the men sat 
over the coffee in the dining-room, his mood was mellower. A 
dinner at home has a wonderful effect upon the temper of a 
man who has travelled and fared badly for eight-and-forty 
hours. 

Giovannino,” said old Saracinesca, “ have you any idea 
what the Cardinal thinks of your marriage ? ” 

No; and I do not care,” answered the younger man. He 
once advised me not to marry Donna Tullia. He has not seen 
me often since then.” 

“I have an idea that it will please him immensely,” said 
the Prince. 

It would be very much the same if it displeased, him.” 

“ Very much the same. Have you seen Corona to-day ?” 

Yes — of course,” answered Giovanni. 

What is the use of my going with you this evening ? ” 
asked his father, suddenly. I should think you could man- 
age your own affairs without my help.” 

thought that as you have taken so much trouble, you 
would enjoy telling her the story yourself.” 

Do you think I am a vain fool, sir, to be amused by a 
woman’s praise ? Nonsense! Go yourself.” 

^^By all means,” answered Giovanni. He was used to his 
father’s habit of being quarrelsome over trifies, and he was 
much too happy to take any notice of it now. 

You are tired,” he continued. I am sure you have a 
right to be. You must want to go to bed.” 

'^To bed indeed!” growled the old man. “Tired! You 
think I am good for nothing; I know you do. You look upon 
me as a doting old cripple. I tell you, boy, I can ” 

“For heaven’s sake, padre mio, do precisely as you are 
inclined. I never said 

“ Never said what ? Why are you always quarrelling with 
me?” roared his father, who had not lost his temper for two 
days, and missed his favourite exercise. 

“ What day shall we fix upon?” asked Giovanni, unmoved. 

“ Day ! Any day. AVhat do I care ? Oh ! — well, since you 
speak of it, you might say a week from Sunday. To-day is 
Friday. But I do not care in the least.” 

“ Very well — if Corona can get ready.” 

“ She shall be ready — she must be ready! ” answered the old 


SARACINESCA. 


293 


gentleman, in a tone of conviction. Why should she not be 
ready, I would like to know ? 

No reason whatever,” said Giovanni, with unusual mildness. 

Of course not. There is never any reason in anything you 
say, you unreasonable boy.” 

Never, of course.” Giovanni rose to go, biting his lips to 
keep down a laugh. 

‘‘ What the devil do you mean by always agreeing with me, 
you impertinent scapegrace? And you are laughing, too — 
laughing at me, sir, as I live ! Upon my word ! ” 

Giovanni turned his back and lighted a cigar. Then, with- 
out looking round, he walked towards the door. 

Giovannino,” called the Prince. 

^nVell?” 

I feel better now. I wanted to abuse somebody. Look 
here — wait a moment.” He rose quickly, and left the room. 

Giovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, looking 
at his watch from time to time. In five minutes his father 
returned, bringing in his hand an old red morocco case. 

"Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,” he said. 
" They are some of your mothers diamonds — just a few of 
them. She shall have the rest on the wedding-day.” 

" Thank you,” said Giovanni, and pressed his fathers hand. 

" And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow at two 
o’clock,” added the Prince, now perfectly serene. 

With the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out. The 
sky was clear and frosty, and the stars shone brightly, high up 
between the tall houses of the narrow street. Giovanni had 
not ordered a carriage, and seeing how fine the night was, he 
decided to walk to his destination. It was not eight o’clock, 
and Corona would have scarcely finished dinner at that hour. 
He walked slowly. As he emerged into the Piazza di Venezia 
some one overtook him. 

" Good evening. Prince.” Giovanni turned, and recognised 
Anastase Gouache, the Zouave. 

" Ah, Gouache — how are you ? ” 

" I am going to pay you a visit,” answered the Frenchman. 

" I am very sorry — I have just left home,” returned Giovanni, 
in some surprise. 

" Not at your house,” continued Anastase. " My company 
is ordered to the mountains. We leave to-morrow morning for 
Subiaco, and some of us are to be quartered at Saracinesca.” 

" I hope you will be among the number,” said Giovanni. ^ " I 
shall probably be married next week, and the Duchessa wishes 
to go at once to the mountains. We shall be delighted to see 
you.” 

" Thank you very much. I will not fail to do myself the 


294 


SARACINESCA. 


honour. My homage to Madame la Duchesse. I must turn 
here. Good night.^^ 

Au revoir” said Giovanni, and went on his way. 

He found Corona in an inner sitting-room, reading beside a 
great wood-fire. There were soft shades of lilac mingled with 
the black of her dress. The year of mourning was past, and so 
soon as she could she modified her widow’s weeds into some- 
thing less solemnly black. It was impossible to wear funeral 
robes on the eve of her second marriage; and the world had 
declared that she had shown an extraordinary degree of virtue 
in mourning so long for a death which every one considered so 
highly appropriate. Corona, however, felt differently. To her, 
her dead husband and the man she now so wholly loved be- 
longed to two totally distinct classes of men. Her love, her 
marriage with Giovanni, seemed so natural a consequence of 
her being left alone — so absolutely removed from her former 
life — that, on the eve of her wedding, she could almost wish 
that poor old Astrardente were alive to look as her friend upon 
her new-found happiness. 

She welcomed Giovanni with a bright smile. She had not 
expected him that evening, for he had been with her all the 
afternoon. She sprang to her feet and came quickly to meet 
him. She almost unconsciously took the morocco case from 
his hands, not looking at it, and hardly noticing what she did. 

“ My father has come back. It is all settled ! ” cried Gio- 
vanni. 

So soon ! He must have flown ! ” said she, making him sit 
down. 

Yes, he has never rested, and he has found out all about it. 
It is a most extraordinary story. By the bye, he sends you af- 
fectionate messages, and begs you to accept these diamonds. 
They were my mother’s,” he added, his voice softening and 
changing. Corona understood his tone, and perhaps realised, 
too, how very short the time now was. She opened the case 
carefully. 

“They are very beautiful; your mother wore them, Gio- 
vanni ? ” She looked lovingly at him, and then bending down 
kissed the splendid coronet as though in reverence of the dead 
Spanish woman who had borne the man she loved. AVhereat 
Giovanni stole to her side, and kissed her own dark hair very 
tenderly. 

“ I was to tell you that there are a great many more,” he said, 
“ which my father will offer you on the wedding-day.” Then 
he kneeled down beside her, and raising the crown from its 
case, set it with both his hands upon her diadem of braids. 

“My princess!” he exclaimed. “How beautiful you are ! ” 
He took the great necklace, and clasped it about her white 


SARACINESCA. 


295 


throat. Of course/^ he said, you have such splendid jewels 
of your own, perhaps you hardly care for these and the- rest. 
But I like to see you with them — it makes me feel that you are 
really mine.” 

Corona smiled happily, and gently took the coronet from her 
head, returning it to its case. She let the necklace remain 
about her throat. 

‘‘You have not told me about your father^s discovery,” she 
said, suddenly. 

“ Yes — I will tell you.” 

In a few minutes he communicated to her the details of the 
journey. She listened with profound interest. 

“It is very strange,” she said. “And yet it is so very 
natural.” 

“You see it is all Del Ferice^s doing,” said Giovanni. “I 
suppose it was really an accident in the first place; but he 
managed to make a great deal of it. It is certainly very amus- 
ing to find that the last of the other branch is an innkeeper in 
the Abruzzi. However, I daresay we shall never hear of him 
again. He does not seem inclined to claim his title. Corona 
miay I have something much more serious to say to you to- 
night.” 

“ What is it ? ” she asked, turning lier great dark eyes rather 
wonderingly to his face. 

“ There is no reason why we should not be married, now ” 

“Do you think I ever believed there was?” she asked, re- 
proachfully. 

“No, dear. Only — would you mind its being very soon ? ” 

The dark blood rose slowly to her cheek, but she answered 
without any hesitation. She was too proud to hesitate. 

“ Whenever you please, Giovanni. Only it must be very quiet, 
and we will go straight to Saracinesca. If you agree to those 
two things, it shall be as soon as you please.” 

“Next week? A week from Sunday?” asked Giovanni, 
eagerly. 

“ Yes — a week from Sunday. I would rather not go through 
the ordeal of a long engagement. I cannot bear to have every 
one here congratulating me from morning till night, as they 
insist upon doing.” 

“ I will send the people out to Saracinesca to-morrow,” said 
Giovanni, in great delight. “They have been at work all 
winter, making the place respectable.” 

“Not changing, I hope?” exclaimed Corona, who dearly 
loved the old ^ey walls. 

“ Only repairing the state apartments. By the bye, I met 
Gouache this evening. He is going out with a company of 
Zouaves to hunt the &’igands, if there really are any.” 


296 


saracikesca. 


“I hope he will not come near ns,” answered Corona. ‘‘I 
want to be all alone with you, Giovanni, for ever so long. 
Would you not rather be alone for a little while?” she asked, 
looking up suddenly with a timid smile. “ Should I bore you 
very much ? ” 

It is unnecessary to record Giovanni’s answer. If Corona 
longed to be alone with him in the hills, Giovanni himself de- 
sired such a retreat still more. To be out of the world, even 
for a month, seemed to him the most delightful of prospects, 
for he was weary of the city, of society, of everything save the 
woman he was about to marry. Of her he could never tire; he 
j could not imagine that in her company the days would ever 
i seem long, even in old Saracinesca, among the grey rocks of the 
' Sabines. The average man is gregarious, perhaps; but in strong 
1 minds there is often a great desire for solitude, or at least for 

• retirement, in the society of one sympathetic soul. The in- 
■ stinct which bids such people leave the world for a time is 

never permanent, unless they become morbid. It is a natural 
, feeling; and a strong brain gathers strength from communing 

• with itself or with its natural mate. There are few great men 

• who have not at one time or another withdrawn into solitude, 
: and their retreat has generally been succeeded by a period of 
extraordinary activity. Strong minds are often, at some time 

f or another, exposed to doubt and uncertainty incomprehensible 
to a smaller intellect — due, indeed, to that very breadth of view 
which contemplates the same idea from a vast number of sides. 
\ To a man so endowed, the casting-vote of some one whom he 
: loves, and with whom he almost unconsciously sympathises, is 
sometimes necessary to produce action, to direct the faculties, 
to guide the overflowing flood of his thought into the mill-race 
of life’s work. Without a certain amount of prejudice to de- 
termine the resultant of its forces, many a fine intellect would 
expend its power in burrowing among its own labyrinths, un- 
recognised, misunderstood, unheard by the working-day world 
without. For the working-day world never lacks prejudice to 
direct its working. 

For some time Giovanni and Corona talked of their plans for 
the spring and summer. They would read, they would work 
together at the schemes for uniting and improving their estates; 
they would build that new road from Astrardente to Saraci- 
nesca, concerning which there had been so much discussion 
during the last year; they would visit every part of their lands 
together, and inquire into the condition of every peasant ; they 
would especially devote their attention to extending the forest 
enclosures, in which Giovanni foresaw a source of wealth for 
. his children ; above all, they would talk to their hearts’ con- 
tent, and feel, as each day dawned upon their happiness, that 


SARACIJfESCA. 


297 


they were tree to go where they would, without being con- 
fronted at every turn by the troublesome duties of an exigent 
society. 

At last the conversation turned again upon recent events, 
and especially upon the part Del Ferice and Donna Tullia had 
played in attempting to prevent the marriage. Corona asked 
what Giovanni intended to do about the matter. 

“I do not see that there is much to be done,^^ he answered. 

I will go to Donna Tullia to-morrow, and explain that there 
has been a curious mistake — that I am exceedingly obliged to 
her for calling my attention to the existence of a distant rela- 
tive, but that I trust she will not in future interfere in mv 
affairs.^^ 

Do you think she will marry Del Ferice after all ? asked 
Corona. 

Why not ? Of course he gave her the papers. Very pos- 
sibly he thought they really proved my former marriage. She 
will perhaps blame him for her failure, but he will defend him- 
self, never fear; he will make her marry him.-’' 

I wish they would marry and go away," said Corona, to 
whom the very name of Del Ferice was abhorrent, and who de- 
tested Donna Tullia almost as heartil3^ Corona was a very 
good and noble woman, but she was very far from that saintly 
superiority which forgets to resent injuries. Her passions were 
eminently human, and very strong. She had struggled bravely 
against her overwhelming love for Giovanni; and she had so 
far got the mastery of herself, that she would have endured to 
the end if her husband’s death had not set her at liberty. 
Perhaps, too, while she felt the necessity of fighting against 
that love, she attained for a time to an elevation of character 
which would have made such personal injuries as Donna Tullia 
could inflict seem insignificant in comparison with the great 
struggle she sustained against an even greater evil. But in the 
realisation of her freedom, in suddenly giving the rein to her 
nature, so long controlled by her resolute will, all passion 
seemed to break out at once with renewed force ; and the con- 
viction that her anger against her two enemies was perfectly 
just and righteous, added fuel to the fire. Her eyes gleamed 
fiercely as she spoke of Del Ferice and his bride, and no pun- 
ishment seemed too severe for those who had so treacherously 
tried to dash the cup of her happiness from her very lips. 

I wish they would marry," she repeated, “ and I wish the 
Cardinal would turn them out of Eome the next day." 

That might be done," said Giovanni, who had himself re- 
volved more than one scheme of vengeance against the evil- 
doers. The trouble is, that the Cardinal despises Del Ferice 
and his political dilettanteism. He does not care a fig whether 


298 


SARACINESCA. 


the fellow remains in Rome or goes away. I confess it would 
be a great satisfaction to wring the villain^s neck.” 

‘‘ You must not fight him again, Giovanni,” said Corona, in 
sudden alarm. “ You must not risk your life now — you know 
it is mine now.” She laid her hand tenderly on his, and it 
trembled. 

No, dearest — I certainly will not. But my father is very 
angry. I think we may safely leave the treatment of Del 
Ferice in his hands. My father is a very sudden and violent 
man.” 

I know,” replied Corona. He is magnificent when he is 
angry. I have no doubt he will settle Del Ferice^s affairs 
satisfactorily.” She laughed almost fiercely. Giovanni looked 
at her anxiously, yet not without pride, as he recognised in her 
strong anger something akin to himself. 

‘‘ How fierce you are ! ” he said, with a smile. 

“ Have I not cause to be ? Have I not cause to wish these 
people an evil end ? Have they not nearly separated us ? 
Nothing is bad enough for them — what is the use of pretending 
not to feel ? You are calm, Giovanni ? Perhaps you are much 
stronger than I am. I do not think you realise what they 
meant to do — to separate us — its ! As if any torture were bad 
enough for them !” 

Giovanni had never seen her so thoroughly roused. He was 
angry himself, and more than angry, for his cheek paled, and 
his stern features grew more hard, while his voice dropped to a 
hoarser tone. 

“ Do not mistake me. Corona,” he said. Do not think I 
am indifferent because I am quiet. Del Ferice shall expiate 
all some day, and bitterly too.” 

‘‘Indeed I hope so,” answered Corona between her teeth. 
Had Giovanni foreseen the long and bitter struggle he would 
one day have to endure before that expiation was complete, he 
would very likely have renounced his vengeance then and 
there, for his wife^s sake. But we mortals see but in a glass; 
and when the mirror is darkened by the master-passion of hate, 
we see not at all. Corona and Giovanni, united, rich and pow- 
erful, might indeed appear formidable to a wretch like Del 
Ferice, dependent upon a system of daily treachery for the very 
bread he ate= But in those days the wheel of fortune was be- 
ginning to turn, and far-sighted men prophesied that many an 
obscure individual would one day be playing the part of a great 
personage. Years would still elapse before the change, but the 
change would surely come at last. 

Giovanni was very thoughtful as he walked home that night. 
He was happy, and he had cause to be, for the long-desired day 
was at hand. He had nearly attained the object of his life, 


SARACINESCA. 


299 


and there was now no longer any obstacle to be overcome. The 
relief he felt at his father’s return was very great; for although 
he had known that the impediment raised would be soon re- 
moved, any impediment whatever was exasperating, and he 
could not calculate the trouble that might be caused by the 
further machinations of Donna Tullia and her affianced hus- 
band. All difficulties had, however, been overcome by his 
father’s energetic action, and at once Giovanni felt as though 
a load had fallen from his shoulders, and a veil from his eyes. 
He saw himself wedded to Corona in less than a fortnight, re- 
moved from the sphere of society and of all his troubles, living 
for a space alone with her in his ancestral home, calling her, at 
last, his wife. Nevertheless he was thoughtful, and his expres- 
sion was not one of unmingled gladness, as he threaded the 
streets on his way home; for his mind reverted to Del Ferice 
and to Donna Tullia, and Corona’s fierce look was still before 
him. He reflected that she had been nearly as much injured 
as himself, that her wrath was legitimate, and that it was his 
duty to visit her sufferings as well as his own upon the offend- 
ers. His melancholic nature easily fell to brooding over any 
evil which was strong enough to break the barrier of his 
indifference; and the annoyances which had sprung originally 
from so small a cause had grown to gigantic proportions, and 
had struck at the very roots of his happiness. 

He had begun by disliking Del Ferice in an indifferent way 
whenever he chanced to cross his path. Del Ferice had re- 
sented this haughty indifference as a personal insult, and liad 
set about injuring Giovanni, attempting to thwart him when- 
ever he could. Giovanni had caught Del Ferice in a dastardly 
trick, and had been so far roused as to take summary vengeance 
upon him in the duel which took place after the Frangipani 
ball. The wound had entered into Ugo’s soul, and his hatred 
had grown the faster that he found no opportunity of revenge. 
Then, at last, when Giovanni’s happiness had seemed complete, 
his enemy had put forward his pretended proof of a former 
marriage; knowing well enough that his weapons were not 
invincible — were indeed very weak — but unable to resist any 
longer the desire for vengeance. Once more Giovanni had tri- 
umphed easily, but with victory came the feeling that it was 
his turn to punish his adversary. And now there was a new 
and powerful motive added to Giovanni’s just resentment, in 
the anger his future wife felt, and had a good right to feel, at 
the treachery which had been practised upon both. It had 
taken two years to rouse Giovanni to energetic action against 
one whom he had in turn regarded with indifference, then 
despised, then honestly disliked, and finally hated. But his 
hatred had been doubled each time by a greater injury, and 


300 


SARACINESCA. 


was not likely to be easily satisfied. Nothing short of Del 
Ferice^s destruction would be enough, and his destruction must 
be brought about by legal means. 

Giovanni had not far to seek for his weapons. He had long 
suspected Del Ferice of treasonable practices ; he did not 
doubt that with small exertion he could find evidence to con- 
vict him. He would, then, allow him to marry Donna Tullia ; 
and on the day after the wedding, Del Ferice should be ar- 
rested and lodged in the prison of the Holy Office as a political 
delinquent of the meanest and most dangerous kind — as a 
political spy. The determination was soon reached. It did 
not seem cruel to Giovanni, for he was in a relentless mood; 
it would not have seemed cruel to Corona, — Del Ferice had de- 
served all that, and more also. 

So Giovanni went home and slept the sleep of a man who has 
made up his mind upon an important matter. And in the 
morning he rose early and communicated his ideas to his father. 
The result was that they determined for the present to avoid 
an interview with Donna Tullia, and to communicate to her by 
letter the result of old Saracinesca’s rapid journey to Aquila. 


CHAPTEK XXXI. 

When Donna Tullia received Saracinesca’s note, explaining 
the existence of a second Giovanni, his pedigree and present 
circumstances, she almost fainted with disappointment. It 
seemed to her that she had compromised herself before the 
world, that all Eome knew the ridiculous part she had played 
in Del Ferice^s comedy, and that her shame would never be for- 
gotten. Suddenly she saw how she had been led away by her 
hatred of Giovanni into believing blindly in a foolish tale 
which ought not to have deceived a child. So soon as she 
learned the existence of a second Giovanni Saracinesca, it 
seemed to her that she must have been mad not to foresee such 
an explanation from the first. She had been duped, she had 
been made a caPs-paw, she had been abominably deceived by 
Del Ferice, who had made use of this worthless bribe in order 
to extort from her a promise, of marriage. She felt very ill, 
as very vain people often do when they feel that they have 
been made ridiculous. She lay upon the sofa in her little 
boudoir, where everything was in the worst possible taste — 
from the gaudy velvet carpet and satin furniture to the gilt 
clock on the chimney-piece — and she turned red and pale and 
red again, and wished she were dead, or in Paris, or anywhere 
save in Rome. If she went out she might meet one of the 
Saracinesca at any turn of the street, or even Corona herself. 
How they would bow and smile sweetly at her, enjoying her 


SARACINESCA. 


301 


discomfiture with the polite superiority of people who cannot 
be hurt !’ 

And she herself— she could not tell what she should do. She 
had announced her engagement to Del Ferice, but she could 
not marry him. She had been entrapped into making him a 
promise, into swearing a terrible oath; but the Church did not 
consider such oaths binding. She would go to Padre Filippo 
aud ask his advice. 

But then, if she went to Padre Filippo, she would have to 
confess all she had done, and she was not prepared to do that. 
A few weeks would pass, and that time would be sufficient to 
mellow and smooth the remembrance of her revengeful pro- 
jects into a less questionable shape. No— she could not confess 
all that just yet. Surely such an oath was not binding; at 
all events, she could not marry Del Ferice, whether she broke 
her promise or not. In the first place, she would send for him 
and vent her anger upon him while it was hot. 

Accordingly, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, Ugo 
appeared, smiling, smooth and persuasive as usual. Donna 
Tullia assumed a fine attitude of disdain as she heard his step 
outside the door. She intended to impress him with a full 
and sudden view of her just anger. He did not seem much 
moved, and came forward as usual to take her hand and kiss it. 
But she folded her arms and stared at him with all the con- 
tempt she could concentrate in the gaze of her blue eyes. It 
was a good comedy. Del Ferice, who had noticed as soon as he 
entered the room that something was wrong, and had already 
half guessed the cause, affected to spring back in horror when 
she refused to give her hand. His pale face expressed suffi- 
ciently well a mixture of indignation and sorrow at the harsh 
treatment he received. Still Donna Tullia’s cold eye rested 
upon him in a fixed stare. 

“ What is this ? What have I done ? asked Del Ferice in 
low tones. 

Can you ask ? Wretch ! Read that, and understand what 
you have done,” answered Donna Tullia, making a step for- 
ward and thrusting Saracinesca^s letter in his face. 

Del Ferice had already seen the handwriting, and knew what 
the contents were likely to be. He took the letter in one hand, 
and without looking at it, still faced the angry woman. ' His 
brows contracted into a heavy frown, and his half-closed eyes 
gazed menacingly at her. 

“ It will be an evil day for any man who comes between you 
and me,” he said, in tragic tones. 

Donna Tullia laughed harshly, and again drew herself up, 
watching his face, and expecting to witness his utter confusion. 
But she was no match for the actor whom she had promised to 


302 


SARACII^ESCA. 


marry. Del Ferice began to read, and as he read, his frown 
relaxed; gradually an ugly smile, intended to represent fiendish 
cunning, stole over his features, and when he had finished, he 
uttered a cry of triumph. 

‘‘ Ha ! he said, “ I guessed it ! I hoped it — and it is true ! 
He is found at last ! The very man — the real Saracinesca ! 
It is only a matter of time 

Donna Tullia now stared in unfeigned surprise. Instead of 
crushing him to the ground as she had expected, the letter 
seemed to fill him with boundless delight. He paced the room 
in wild excitement, chattering like a madman. In spite of 
herself, however, her own spirits rose, and her anger against Del 
Ferice softened. All was perhaps not lost — who could fathom 
the intricacy of his great schemes ? Surely he was not the 
man to fall a victim to his own machinations. 

Will you please explain your extraordinary satisfaction at 
this news ? said Madame Mayer. Between her late anger, 
her revived hopes, and her newly roused curiosity, she was in a 
terrible state of suspense. 

“ Explain ? he cried. Explain what, most adorable of 
women ? Does it not explain itself ? Have we not found the 
Marchese di San Giacinto, the real Saracinesca ? Is not that 
enough ? 

I do not understand ” 

Del Ferice was now by her side. He seemed hardly able to 
control himself for joy. As a matter of fact he was acting, 
and acting a desperate paH too, suggested on the spur of the 
moment by the risk he ran of losing this woman and her for- 
tune on the very eve of marriage. Now he seized her hand, 
and drawing her arm through his, led her quickly backwards 
and forwards, talking fast and earnestly. It would not do to 
hesitate, for by a moment’s appearance of uncertainty all would 
be lost. 

“No; of course you cannot understand the vast importance 
of this discovery. I must explain. I must enter into historic 
details, and I am so much overcome by this extraordinary turn 
of fortune that I can hardly speak. Eemove all doubt from 
your mind, my dear lady, for we have already triumphed. This 
innkeeper, this Giovanni Saracinesca, this Marchese di San 
Giacinto, is the lawful and right Prince Saracinesca, the head 
of the house ” 

“What!” screamed Donna Tullia, stopping short, and grip- 
ping his arm as in a vice. 

“ Indeed he is. I suspected it when I first found the signa- 
ture at Aquila; but the man was gone, with his newly married 
wife, no one knew whither; and I could not find him, search as 
I might. He is now returned, and what is more,, as this letter 


SARACINESCA. 


303 


says, with all his papers proving his identity. This is how the 
matter lies. Listen, Tnllia mia. The old Leone Saracinesca 
who last bore the title of Marquis 

“The one mentioned here?^^ asked Donna Tnllia, breath- 
lessly. 

“ Yes— the one who took service under Murat, under Napo- 
leon. Well, it is perfectly well known that he laid claim to the 
Roman title, and with perfect justice. Two generations before 
that, there had been an amicable arrangement— amicable, but 
totally illegal — whereby the elder brother, who was an unmar- 
ried. invalid, transferred the Roman estates to his younger 
brother, who was married and had children, and, in exchange, 
took the Neapolitan estates and title, which had just fallen back 
to the main branch by the death of a childless Marchese di San 
Giacinto. Late in life this old recluse invalid married, contrary 
to all expectation — certainly contrary to his own previous inten- 
tions. However, a child was born — a boy. The old man found 
himself deprived by his own act of his principality, and the 
succession turned from his son to the son of his younger brother. 
He began a negotiation for again obtaining possession of the 
Roman title — at least so the family tradition goes — but his 
brother, who was firmly established in Rome, refused to listen 
to his demands. At this juncture the old man died, being 
legally, observe, still the head of the family of Saracinesca; his 
son should have succeeded him. But his wife, the young 
daughter of an obscure Neapolitan nobleman, was not more 
than eighteen years of age, and the child was only six months 
old. People married young in those days. She entered some 
kind of protest, which, however, was of no avail; and the boy 
grew up to be called the Marchese di San Giacinto. He learned 
the story of his birth from his mother, and protested in his turn. 
He ruined himself in trying to push his suit in the Neapolitan 
courts; and finally, in the days of Napoleon’s success, he took 
service under Murat, receiving the solemn promise of the 
Emperor that he should be reinstated in his title. But the 
Emperor forgot his promise, or did not find it convenient to 
keep it, having perhaps reasons of his own for not quarrelling 
with Pius the Seventh, who protected the Roman Saracinesca. 
Then came 1815, the downfall of the Empire, the restoration of 
Ferdinand IV. in Naples, the confiscation of property from all 
who had joined the Emperor, and the consequent complete ruin 
of San Giacinto’s hopes. He was supposed to have been killed, 
or to have made away with himself. Saracinesca himself 
acknowledges that his grandson is alive, and possesses all the 
family papers. Saracinesca himself has discovered, seen, and 
conversed with the lawful head of his race, who, by the blessing 
of heaven and the assistance of the courts, wiU before long turn 


304 


SARACINESCA. 


him out of house aud home, and reign in his stead in all the 
glories of the Palazzo Saracinesca, Prince of Rome, of the Holy 
Roman Empire, grandee of Spain of the first class, and all the 
rest of it. Do you wonder I rejoice, now that I am sure of put- 
ting an innkeeper over my enemy’s head ? Fancy the humilia- 
tion of old Saracinesca, of Giovanni, who will have to take his 
wife’s title for the sake of respectability, of the Astrardente 
herself, when she finds she has married the penniless son of a 
penniless pretender!” 

Del Ferice knew enough of the Saracinesca’s family history 
to know that something like what he had so fluently detailed to 
Donna Tullia had actually occurred, and he knew well enough 
that she would not remember every detail of his rapidly told 
tale. Hating the family as he did, he had diligently sought out 
all information about them which he could obtain without gain- 
ing access to their private archives. His ready wit helped him 
to string the whole into a singularly plausible story. So plausi- 
ble, indeed, that it entirely upset all Donna Tullia’s determina- 
tion to be angry at Del Ferice, and filled her with something of 
the enthusiasm he showed. For himself he hoped that there 
was enough in his story to do some palpable injury to the 
Saracinesca; but his more immediate object was not to lose 
Donna Tullia by letting her feel any disappointment at the dis- 
covery recently made by the old Prince. Donna Tullia listened 
with breathless interest until he had finished. 

What a man you are, Ugo! How you turn defeat into vic- 
tory! Is it all really true ? Do you think we can do it ? ” 

“If I were to die this instant,” Del Ferice asseverated, 
solemnly raising his hand, “ it is all perfectly true, so help me 

He hoped, for many reasons, that he was not perjuring him- 
self. 

“What shall we do, then F” asked Madame Mayer. 

“ Let them marry first, and then we shall be sure of humili- 
ating them both,” he answered. Unconsciously he repeated 
the very determination which Giovanni had formed against him 
the night before. “ Meanwhile, you and I can consult the 
lawyers and see how this thing can best be accomplished quickly 
and surely,” he added. 

“You will have to send for the innkeeper ” 

“ I will go and see him. It will not be hard to persuade him 
to claim his lawful rights.” 

Del Ferice remained some time in conversation with Donna 
Tullia. The magnitude of the scheme fascinated her, and 
instead of thinking of breaking her promise to Ugo as she had 
intended doing, she so far fell under his unfluence as to name 
the wedding-day, — Easter Monday, they agreed, would exactly 


SARACINESCA, 


305 


suit them and their plans. Indeed the idea of refusing to 
fulfil her engagement had been but the result of a transitory fit 
of anger; if she had had any fear of making a misalliance in 
marrying Del Ferice, the way in which the world received the 
news of the engagement removed all such apprehension from 
her mind. Del Ferice was already treated with increased 
respect — the very servants began to call him “ Eccellenza/^ a 
distinction to which he neither had, nor could ever have, any 
kind of claim, but which pleased Donna Tullia^s vain soul. 
The position which Ugo had obtained for himself by an 
assiduous attention to the social claims and prejudices of social 
lights and oracles, was suddenly assured to him, and rendered 
tenfold more brilliant by the news of his alliance with Donna 
Tullia. He excited no jealousies either; for Donna Tullia's 
peculiarities were of a kind which seemed to have interfered 
from the first with her matrimonial projects. As a young girl, 
a relation of the Saracinesca, whom she now so bitterly hated, 
she should have been regarded as marriageable by any of the 
y.oung Roman nobles, from Valdarno down. But she had only 
a small dowry, and she was said to be extravagant — two objec- 
tions then not so easily overcome as now. Moreover, she was 
considered to be somewhat fiighty; and the social jury decided 
that when she was married, she would be excellent company, 
but would make a very poor wife. Almost before they had 
finished discussing her, however, she had found a husband, in 
the shape of the wealthy foreign contractor, Mayer, who wanted 
a wife from a good Roman house, and cared not at all for 
money. She treated him very well, but was speedily delivered 
from all her cares by his untimely death. Then, of all her 
fellow-citizens, none was found save the eccentric old Saraci- 
nesca, who believed that she would do for his son ; wherein it 
appeared that Giovanni’s father was the man of all others who 
least understood Giovanni’s inclinations. But this match fell 
to the ground, owing to Giovanni’s attachment to Corona, and 
Madame Mayer was left with the prospect of remaining a widow 
for the rest of her life, or of marrying a poor man. She chose 
the latter alternative, and fate threw into her way the cleverest 
poor man in Rome, as though desiring to compensate her for 
not having married one of the greatest nobles, in the person of 
Giovanni. Though she was always a centre of attraction, no 
one of those she most attracted wanted to marry her, and all 
expressed their unqualified approval of her ultimate choice. 
One said she was very generous to marry a penniless gentleman; 
another remarked that she showed wisdom in choosing a man 
who was in the way of making himself a good position under 
the Italian Government; a third observed that he was delighted, 
because he could enjoy her society without being suspected of 


306 


SARACIKESCA. 


wanting to marry her; and all agreed in praising her, and in 
treating Del Ferice with the respect due to a man highly 
favoured by fortune. 

Donna Tullia named the wedding-day, and her affianced hus- 
band departed in high spirits with himself, with her, and with 
his scheme. He felt still a little excited, and wanted to be 
alone. He hardly realised the magnitude of the plot he had 
undertaken, and needed time to reflect upon it; but with the 
true instinct of an intriguiug genius he recognised at once that 
his new plan was the thing he had sought for long and ar- 
dently, and that it was worth all his other plans put together. 
Accordingly he went home, and proceeded to devote himself to 
the study of the question, sending a note to a friend of his — a 
young lawyer of doubtful reputation, but of brilliant parts, 
whom he at once selected as his chief counsellor in the impor- 
tant affair he had undertaken. 

Before long he heard that the marriage of Don Giovanni 
Saracinesca to the Duchessa d^Astrardente was to take place 
the next week, in the chapel of the Palazzo Saracinesca. At 
least popular report said that the ceremony was to take place 
there; and that it was to be performed with great privacy was 
sufficiently evident from the fact that no invitations appeared to 
have been issued. Society did not fail to comment upon such 
exclusiveness, and it commented unfavourably, for it felt that 
it was being deprived of a long-anticipated spectacle. This 
state of things lasted for two days, when, upon the Sunday 
morning precisely a week before the wedding, all Kome was 
surprised by receiving an imposing invitation, setting forth 
that the marriage would be solemnised in the Basilica of the 
Santi Apostoli, and that it would be followed by a state recep- 
tion at the Palazzo Saracinesca. It was soon known that the 
ceremony would be performed by the Cardinal Archpriest of 
St. Peter’s, that the united choirs of St. Peter’s and of the Sis- 
tine Chapel would sing the High Mass, and that the whole 
occasion would be one of unprecedented solemnity and magnifl-' 
cence. This was the programme published by the ' Osserva- 
tore Eomano,’ and that newspaper proceeded to pronounce a 
eulogy of some length and considerable eloquence upon the 
happy pair. Rome was fairly taken off its feet; and although 
some malcontents were found, who said it was improper that 
Corona’s marriage should be celebrated with such pomp so soon 
after her husband’s death, the general verdict was that the 
whole proceeding was eminently proper and becoming to so 
important an event. So soon as every one had been invited, 
no one seemed to think it remarkable that the invitations 
should have been issued so late. It was not generally known 
that in the short time which elapsed between the naming of 


SARACIN-ESCA. 


307 


the day and the issuing of the cards, there had been several in- 
terviews between old Saracinesca and Cardinal Antonelli; that 
the former had explained Corona's natural wish that the mar- 
riage should be private, and that the latter had urged many 
reasons why so great an event ought to be public; that Saraci- 
nesca had said he did not care at all, and was only expressing 
the views of his son and of the bride; that the Cardinal had 
repeatedly asseverated that he wished to please everybody; that 
Corona had refused to be pleased by a public ceremony ; and 
that, finally, the Cardinal, seeing himself hard pressed, had 
persuaded his Holiness himself to express a wish that the mar- 
riage should take place in the most solemn and public man- 
ner; wherefore Corona had reluctantly yielded the point, and 
the matter was arranged. The fact was that the Cardinal 
wished to make a sort of demonstration of the solidarity of the 
Roman nobility: it suited his aims to enter into every detail 
which could add to the importance of the Roman Court, and 
which could help to impress upon the foreign Ministers the 
belief that in all matters the Romans as one man would stand 
by each other and by the Vatican. No one knew better than 
he how the spectacle of a religious solemnity, at which the 
whole nobility would attend in a body, must strike the mind 
of a stranger in Rome; for in Roman ceremonies of that day 
there was a pomp and magnificence surpassing that found in 
any other Court of Europe. The whole marriage would become 
an event of which he could make an impressive use, and he wasl 
determined not to forego any advantages which might arise 
from it; for he was a man who of all men well understood the 
value of details in maintaining prestige. 

But to the two principal actors in the day's doings the affair 
was an unmitigated annoyance, and even their own great and 
true happiness could not lighten the excessive fatigue of the 
pompous ceremony and of the still more pompous reception 
which followed it. To describe that day would be to make out 
a catalogue of gorgeous equipages, gorgeous costumes, gorgeous 
decorations. Many pages would not suffice to enumerate the 
cardinals, the dignitaries, the ambassadors, the great nobles, 
whose magnificent coaches drove up in long file through the 
Piazza dei Santi Apostoli to the door of the Basilica. The 
columns of the ‘ Osservatore Romano ' were full of it for a week 
afterwards. There was no end to the descriptions of the cos- 
tumes, from the white satin and diamonds of the bride to the 
festal uniforms of the Cardinal Archpriest's retinue. Not a 
personage of importance was overlooked in the newspaper ac- 
count, not a diplomatist, not an officer of Zouaves. And society 
read the praise of itself, and found it much more interesting 
than the praise of the bride and bridegroom; and only one or 


308 


SARACINESCA. 


two people were offended because the paper had made a mis- 
take in naming the colours of the hammer-cloths upon their 
coaches: so that the affair was a great success. 

But when at last the sun was low and the guests had de- 
parted from the Palazzo Saracinesca, Corona and Giovanni got 
into their travelling carriage under the gi’eat dark archway, and 
sighed a sigh of infinite relief. The old Prince put his arms 
tenderly around his new daughter and kissed her; and for the 
second time in the course of this history, it is to be recorded 
that two tears stole silently down his brown cheeks to his grey 
beard. Then he embraced Giovanni, whose face was pale and 
earnest. 

‘‘ This is not the end of our living together, yadre mio” he 
said. ‘‘We shall expect you before long at Saracinesca.” 

“Yes, my boy,” returned the old man; “I will come and see 
you after Easter. But do not stay if it is too cold; I have a 
little business to attend to in Kome before I join you,” he added, 
with a grim smile. 

“ I know,” replied Giovanni, a savage light in his black eyes. 
“ If you need help, send to me, or come yourself.” 

“No fear of that, Giovannino; I have got a terrible helper. 
Now, be off. The guards are growing impatient.” 

“ Good-bye. God bless you, padre mio ! ” 

“ God bless you both! ” So they drove off, and left old Sara- 
cinesca standing bareheaded and alone under the dim archway 
of his ancestral palace. The great carriage rolled out, and the 
guard of mounted gendarmes, which the Cardinal liad insisted 
upon sending with the young couple, half out of compliment, 
half for safety, fell in behind, and trotted down the narrow 
street, with a deafening clatter of hoofs and clang of scabbards. 

But Giovanni held Coronals hand in his, and both were silent 
for a time. Then they rolled under the low vault of the Porta 
San Lorenzo and out into the evening sunlight of the Cam- 
pagna beyond. 

“ God be praised that it has come at last ! ” said Giovanni. 

“ Yes, it has come,” answered Corona, her strong white fingers 
closing upon his brown hand almost convulsively; “ and, come 
what may, you are mine, Giovanni, until we die ! ” 

There was something fierce in the way those two loved each 
other; for they had fought many fights before they were united, 
and had overcome themselves, each alone, before they had over- 
come other obstacles together. 

Eelays of horses awaited them on their way, and relays of 
mounted guards. Late that night they reached Saracinesca, all 
ablaze with torches and lanterns; and the young men took the 
horses from the coach and yoked themselves to it with ropes, 
and dragged the cumbrous carriage up the last hill with furious 


SARACINESCA. 


309 


speed, shouting and singing like madmen in the cool mountain 
air. Up the steep they rushed, and under the grand old gate- 
way, made as bright as day with flaming torches; and then 
there went up a shout that struck the old vaults like a wild 
chord of fierce music, and Corona knew that her journey was 
ended. 

So it was that Giovanni Saracinesca brought home his bride. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The old Prince was left alone, as he had often been left be- 
fore, when Giovanni was gone to the ends of the earth in pur- 
suit of his amusements. On such occasions old Saracinesca 
frequently packed up his traps and followed his soiTs exam- 
ple; but he rarely went further than Paris, where he had many 
friends, and where he generally succeeded in finding consolation 
for his solitude. 

Now, however, he felt more than usually lonely. Giovanni 
had not gone far, it is true, for with good horses it was scarcely 
more than eight hours to the castle; but, for the first time in 
his life, old Saracinesca felt that if he had suddenly determined 
to follow his son, he would not be welcome. The boy was mar- 
ried at last, and must be left in peace for a few days with his 
bride. With the contrariety natural to him, old Saracinesca no 
sooner felt that his son was gone than he experienced the most 
ardent desire to be with him. He had often seen Giovanni 
leave the house at twenty-four hours^ notice on his way to some 
distant capital, and had not cared to accompany him, simply 
because he knew he might do so if he pleased; but now he felt 
that some one else had taken his place, and that, for a time 
at least, he was forcibly excluded from Giovanni^s society. It 
is very likely that but for the business which detained him in 
Rome he would have astonished the happy pair by riding into 
the gateway of the old castle on the day after the wedding: 
that business, however, was urgent, secret, and, moreover, very 
congenial to the old man^s present temper. 

He had discussed the matter fully with Giovanni, and they 
had agreed upon the course to be pursued. There was, never- 
theless, much to be done before the end they both so earnestly 
desired could be attained. It seemed a simple plan to go to 
Cardinal Antonelli and to demand the arrest of Del Ferice for 
his misdeeds; but as yet those misdeeds were undefined, and it 
was necessary to define them. The Cardinal rarely resorted to 
such measures except when the case was urgent, and Saraci- 
nesca knew perfectly well that it would be hard to prove any- 
thing more serious against Del Ferice than the crime of join- 
ing in the silly talk of Valdarno and his set. Giovanni had 


310 


SARACINESCA. 


told his father plainly that he was sure Del Ferice derived his 
living from some illicit source, but he was wholly unable to 
show what that source was. Most people believed the story 
that Del Ferice had inherited money from an obscure relative; 
most people thought he was clever and astute, but were so far 
deceived by his frank and unaffected manner as to feel sure 
that he always said everything that came into his head ; most 
people are so much delighted when an unusually clever man 
deigns to talk to them, that they cannot, for vanity’s sake, sus- 
pect him of deceiving them. Saracinesca did not doubt that 
the mere statement of his own belief in regard to Del Ferice 
would have considerable weight with the Cardinal, for he was 
used to power of a certain kind, and was accustomed to see his 
judgment treated with deference; but he knew the Cardinal to 
be a cautious man, hating despotic measures, because by his use 
of them he had made himself so bitterly hated — loth always to 
do by force what might be accomplished by skill, and in the 
end far more likely to attempt the conversion of Del Ferice to 
the reactionary view, than to order his expulsion because his 
views were over-liberal. Even if old Saracinesca had possessed 
a vastly greater diplomatic instinct than he did, coupled with 
an unscrupulous mendacity which he certainly had not, he 
would have found it hard to persuade the Cardinal against his 
will; but Saracinesca was, of all men, a man violent in action 
and averse to reflection before or after the fact. That he 
should ultimately be revenged upon Del Ferice and Donna 
Tullia for the part they had lately played, was a matter which 
it never entered his head to doubt; but when he endeavoured 
to find means which should persuade the Cardinal to assist him, 
he seemed fenced in on all sides by impossibilities. One thing 
only helped him — namely, the conviction that if the statesman 
could be induced to examine Del Ferice’s conduct seriously, the 
latter would prove to be not only an enemy to the State, but a 
bitter enemy to the Cardinal himself. 

The more Saracinesca thought of the matter, the more con- 
vinced he was that he should go boldly to the Cardinal and 
state his belief that Del Ferice was a dangerous traitor, who 
ought to be summarily dealt with. If the Cardinal argued the 
case, the Prince would asseverate, after his manner, and some 
sort of result was sure to follow. As he thus determined upon 
his course, his doubts seemed to vanish, as they generally do in 
the mind of a strong man, when action becomes imminent, and 
the confidence the old man had exhibited to his son very soon 
became genuine. It was almost intolerable to have to wait so 
long, however, before doing anything. Giovanni and he had 
decided to allow Del Ferice’s marriage to take place before pro- 
ducing the explosion, in order the more certainly to strike both 


SARACINESCA. 


311 


the offenders; now it seemed best to strike at once. Supposing, 
he argued with himself, that Donna Tullia and her husband 
chose to leave Rome for Paris the day after their wedding, half 
the triumph would be lost; for half the triumph was to consist 
in Del Ferice’s being imprisoned for a spy in Rome, whereas if 
he once crossed the frontier, he could at most be forbidden to 
return, which would be but a small satisfaction to Saracinesca, 
or to Giovanni. 

A week passed by, and the gaiety of Carnival was again at its 
height; and again a week elajosed, and Lent was come. Saraci- 
nesca went everywhere and saw everybody as usual, and then 
after Ash-Wednesday he occasionally showed himself at some of 
those quiet evening receptions which his son so much detested. 
But he was restless and discontented. He longed to begin the 
fight, and could not sleep for thinking of it. Like Giovanni, 
he was strong and revengeful; but Giovanni had from his 
mother a certain slowness of temperament, which often deterred 
him from action just long enough to give him time for reflec- 
tion, whereas the father, when roused, and he was roused easily, 
loved to strike at once. It chanced one evening, in a great 
house, that Saracinesca came upon the Cardinal standing alone 
in an outer room. He was on his way into the reception ; but 
he had stopped, attracted by a beautiful crystal cup of old work- 
manship, which stood, among other objects of the kind, upon 
a marble table in one of the drawing-rooms through which 
he had to pass. The cup itself, of deeply carved rock crystal, 
was set in chiselled silver, and if not the work of Cellini him- 
self, must have been made by one of his pupils. Saracinesca 
stopped by the great man^s side. 

“ Good evening, Eminence,^^ he said. 

" Good evening. Prince,” returned the Cardinal, who recog- 
nised Saracinesca^s voice without looking up. ‘^Have you ever 
seen this marvellous piece of work ? I have been admiring it 
for a quarter of an hour.” He loved all objects of the kind, 
and understood them with rare knowledge. 

“ It is indeed exceedingly beautiful,” answered Saracinesca, 
who longed to take advantage of the opportunity of speaking 
to Cardinal Antonelli upon the subject nearest to his heart. 

Yes — yes,” returned the Cardinal rather vaguely, and made 
as though he would go on. He saw from Saracinesca’s com- 
monplace praise, that he knew nothing of the subject. The old 
Prince saw his opportunity slipping from him, and lost his head. 
He did not recollect that he could see the Cardinal alone 
whenever he pleased, by merely asking for an interview. Fate 
had thrust the Cardinal in his path, and fate was responsible. 

If your Eminence will allow me, I would like a word with 
you,” he said suddenly. 


312 


SARA.CINESCA. 


As many as you please,” answered the statesman, blandly. 

Let us sit down in that corner — no one will disturb us for a 
while.” 

He seemed unusually affable, as he sat himself down by 
Saracinesca’s side, gathering the skirt of his scarlet mantle 
across his knee, and folding his delicate hands together in an 
attitude of restful attention. 

You know, I daresay, a certain Del Ferice, Eminence ? ” 
began the Prince. 

Very well — the deus ex macJiind who has appeared to carry 
off Donna Tullia Mayer. Yes, I know him.” 

Precisely, and they will match very well together ; the 
world cannot help applauding the union of the flesh and the 
devil.” 

The Cardinal smiled. 

“ The metaphor is apt,” he said ; but what about them ? ” 

I will tell you in two words,” replied Saracinesca. Del 
Ferice is a scoundrel of the flrst water ” 

“ A jewel among scoundrels,” interrupted the Cardinal, for 
being a scoundrel he is yet harmless — a stage villain.” 

I believe your Eminence is deceived in him.” 

“ That may easily be,” answered the statesman. am much 
more often deceived than people imagine.” He spoke very 
mildly, but his small black eyes turned keenly upon Saracinesca. 
“ AVhat has he been doing ?” he asked, after a short pause. 

“ He has been trying to do a great deal of harm to my son 
and to my son’s wife. I suspect him strongly of doing harm 
to yon.” 

Whether Saracinesca was strictly honest in saying “ you ” to 
the Cardinal, when he meant the whole State as represented by 
the prime minister, is a matter not easily decided. There is a 
Latin saying, to the effect that a man who is feared by many 
should himself fear many, and the saying is true. The Cardi- 
nal was personally a brave man ; but he knew his danger, and 
the memory of the murdered .JEosgi was fresh in his mind. 
Nevertheless, he smiled blandly as he answered — 

“ That is rather vague, my friend. How is he doing me 
harm, if I may ask ? ” 

argue in this way,” returned Saracinesca, thus pressed. 

The fellow found a most ingenious way of attacking my son 
—he searched the whole country till he found that a man 
called Giovanni Saracinesca had been married some time ago 
in Aquila. He copied the certificates, and produced them 
as pretended proof that my son was already married. If 
I had not found the man myself, there would have been 
trouble. Now besides this, Del Ferice is known to hold Lib- 
eral views ” 


SARACINESCA. 


313 


Of the feeblest kind,” interrupted the statesman, who 
nevertheless became very grave. 

Those he exhibits are of the feeblest kind, and he takes no 
trouble to hide them. But a fellow so ingenious as to imagine 
the scheme he practised against us is not a fool.” 

‘‘ I understand, my good friend,” said the Cardinal. You 
have been injured by this fellow, and you would like me to 
revenge the injury by locking him up. Is that it ? ” 

“ Precisely,” answered Saracinesca, laughing at his own sim- 
plicity. “ I might as well have said so from the first.” 

“Much better. You would make a poor diplomatist, Prince. 
But what in the world shall I gain by revenging your wrongs 
upon that creature ? ” 

“ Nothing — unless when you have taken the trouble to ex- 
amine his conduct, you find that he is really dangerous. In 
that case your Eminence will be obliged to look to your own 
safety. If you find him innocent, you will let him go.” 

“And in that case, what will you do ? ” asked the Cardinal 
with a smile. 

“ I will cut his throat,” answered Saracinesca, unmoved. 

“ Murder him ? ” 

“ No — call him out and kill him like a gentleman, which is a 
great deal better than he deserves.” 

“ I have no doubt you would,” said the Cardinal, gravely. 
“ I think your proposition reasonable, however. If this man is 
really dangerous, I will look to him myself. But I must really 
beg you not to do anything rash. I have determined that this 
duelling shall stop, and I warn you that neither you nor any 
one else will escape imprisonment if you are involved in any 
more of these personal encounters.” 

Saracinesca suppressed a smile at the CardinaPs threat; but 
he perceived that he had gained his point, and was pleased 
accordingly. He had, he felt sure, sown in the statesman’s 
mind a germ of suspicion which would before long bring forth 
fruit. In those days danger was plentiful, and people could 
not afford to overlook it, no matter in what form it presented 
itself, least of all such people as the Cardinal himself, who, 
while sustaining an unequal combat against superior forces 
outside the State, felt that his every step was encompassed by 
perils from within. That he had long despised Del Ferice as 
an idle chatterer did not prevent him from understanding that 
he might have been deceived, as Saracinesca suggested. He 
had caused Ugo to be watched, it is true, but only from time 
to time, and by men whose only duty was to follow him and to 
see whether he frequented suspicious society. The little nest 
of talkers at Gouache’s studio in the Via San Basilio was soon 
discovered, and proved to be harmless enough. Del Ferice was 


314 


SARACINESCA. 


then allowed to go on his way unobserved. But the half-dozen 
words in which Saracinesca had described Ugo’s scheme for 
hindering Giovanni’s marriage had set the Cardinal thinking, 
and the Cardinal seldom wasted time in thinking in vain. His 
interview with Saracinesca ended very soon, and the Prince 
and the statesman entered the crowded drawing-room and 
mixed in the throng. It was long before they met again in 
private. 

The Cardinal on the following day gave orders that Del 
Fence’s letters were to be stopped — by no means an uncommon 
proceeding in those times^^nor so rare in our own day as is 
supposed. The post-office was then in the hands of a private 
individual so far as all management was concerned, and the 
Cardinal’s word was law. Del Ferice’s letters were regularly 
opened and examined. 

The first thing that was discovered was that they frequently 
contained money, generally in the shape of small drafts on 
London signed by a Florentine banker, and that the envelopes 
which contained money never contained anything else. They 
were all posted in Florence. With regard to his letters, they 
appeared to be very innocent communications from all sorts of 
people, rarely referring to politics, and then only in the most 
general terms. If Del Ferice had expected to have his corre- 
spondence examined, he could not have arranged matters better 
for his own safety. To trace the drafts to the person wffio sent 
them was not an easy business; it was impossible to introduce 
a spy into the banking-house in Florence, and among the many 
drafts daily bought and sold, it was almost impossible to iden- 
tify, without the aid of the banker’s books, the person who 
chanced to buy any particular one. The addresses were, it is 
true, uniformly written by the same hand ; but the writing was 
in no way peculiar, and was certainly not that of any promi- 
nent person whose autograph the Cardinal possessed. 

The next step was to get possession of some letter written by 
Del Ferice himself, and, if possible, to intercept everything he 
wrote. But although the letters containing the drafts were 
regularly opened, and, after having been examined and sealed 
again, were regularly transmitted through the post-office to 
Ugo’s address, the expert persons set to catch the letters he 
himself wrote were obliged to own, after three weeks’ careful 
watching, that he never seemed to write any letters at all, and 
that he certainly never posted any. They acknowledged their 
failure to the Cardinal with timid anxiety, expecting to be rep- 
rimanded for their carelessness. But the Cardinal merely told 
them not to relax their attention, and dismissed them with a 
bland smile. He knew, now, that he was on the track of mis- 
chief; for a man who never writes any letters at all, while he 


SAKACINESCA. 


315 


receives many, might reasonably be suspected of having a secret 
post-office of bis own. For some days Del Ferice’s movements 
were narrowly watched, but with no result whatever. Then 
the Cardinal sent for the police register of the district where 
Del Ferice lived, and in which the name, nationality, and resi- 
dence of every individual in the Kione ” or quarter were care- 
fully inscribed, as they still are. 

Kunning his eye down the list, the Cardinal came upon the / 
name of Temistocle Fattorusso, of Naples, servant to Ugo del I 
Conti del Ferice an idea struck him. ? 

‘‘ His servant is a Neapolitan,'' he reflected. He probably 
sends his letters by way of Naples." 

Accordingly Temistocle was watched instead of his master. 

It was found that he frequented the society of other Neapoli- 
tans, and especially that he was in the habit of going from time 
to time to the Ripa Grande, the port of the Tiber, where he 
seemed to have numerous acquaintances among the Neapolitan 
boatmen who constantly came up the coast in their ‘‘martin- 
gane " — heavy, sea-going, lateen-rigged vessels, bringing cargoes 
of oranges and lemons to the Roman market. The mystery 
was now solved. One day Temistocle was actually seen giving 
a letter into the hands of a huge fellow in a red woollen cap. 
The sbirro who saw him do it marked the sailor and his vessel, 
and never lost sight of him till he hoisted his jib and floated 
away down stream. Then the spy took horse and galloped 
down to Fiumicino, where he waited for the little vessel, boarded 
her from a boat, escorted by a couple of gendarmes, and had no 
difficulty in taking the letter from the terrifled seaman, who 
was glad enough to escape without detention. During the next 
fortnight several letters were stopped in this way, carried by 
different sailors, and the whole correspondence went straight to 
the Cardinal. It was not often that he troubled himself to 
play the detective in person, but when he did so, he was not 
easily baffled. And now he observed that about a week after 
the interception of the flrst letter the small drafts which used 
to come so frequently to Del Ferice's address from Florence 
suddenly ceased, proving beyond a doubt that each letter was 
paid for according to its value so soon as it was received. 

With regard to the contents of these epistles little need be 
said. So sure was Del Ferice of his means of transmission that 
he did not even use a cipher, though he, of course, never signed 
any of his writings. The matter was invariably a detailed 
chronicle of Roman sayings and doings, a record, as minute as 
Del Ferice could make it, of everything that took place, and 
even the Cardinal himself was astonished at the accuracy of the 
information thus conveyed. His own appearances in public — 
the names of those with whom he talked— even fragments of 


316 


SARACIKESCA. 


his conversation — were given with annoying exactness. The 
statesman learned with infinite disgust that he had for some 
time past been subjected to a system of espionage at least as 
complete as any of his own invention ; and, what was still more 
annoying to his vanity, the spy was the man of all others whom 
he had most despised, calling him harmless and weak, because 
he cunningly affected weakness. Where or how Del Ferice 
procured so much information the Cardinal cared little enough, 
for he determined there and then that he should procure no 
more. That there were other traitors in the camp was more 
than likely, and that they had aided Del Ferice with their coun- 
sels; but though by prolonging the situation it might be possi- 
ble to track them down, such delay would be valuable to ene- 
mies abroad. Moreover, if Del Ferice began to find out, as he 
soon must, that his private correspondence was being over- 
hauled at the Vatican, he was not a man to hesitate about at- 
tempting his escape; and he would certainly not be an easy 
man to catch, if he could once succeed in putting a few miles 
of Campagna between himself and Eome. There was no know- 
ing what disguise he might not find in which to slip over the 
frontier; and indeed, as he afterwards proved, he was well pre- 
pared for such an emergency. 

The Cardinal did not hesitate. He had just received the 
fourth letter, and if he waited any longer Del Ferice would 
take alarm, and slip through his fingers. He wrote with his 
own hand a note to the chief of police, ordering the immediate 
arrest of Ugo dei Conti del Ferice, with instructions that he 
should be taken in his own house, without any publicity, and 
conveyed in a private carriage to the SanF Uffizio by men in 
plain clothes. It was six o’clock in the evening when he wrote 
the order, and delivered it to his private servant to be taken to 
its destination. The man lost no time, and within twenty 
minutes the chief of police was in possession of his orders, 
which he hastened to execute with all possible speed. Before 
seven o’clock two respectable-looking citizens were seated in the 
chief’s own carriage, driving rapidly in the direction of Del 
Ferice’s house. In less than half an hour the man who had 
caused so much trouble would be safely lodged in the prisons 
of the Holy Office, to be judged for his sins as a political spy. 
In a fortnight he was to have been married to Donna Tullia 
Mayer, — and her trousseau had just arrived from Paris. 

It can hardly be said that the Cardinal’s conduct was unjusti- 
fiable, though many will say that Del Ferice’s secret doings 
were easily defensible on the ground of his patriotism. Cardi- 
nal Antonelli had precisely defined the situation in his talk 
with Anastase Gouache by saying that the temporal power was 
driven to bay. To all appearances Europe was at peace, but 


SARACINESCA. 


317 


as a matter of fact the peace was but an armed neutrality. 
An amount of interest was concentrated upon the situation of 
the Papal States which has rarely been excited by events of 
much greater apparent importance than the occupation of a 
small principality by foreign troops. All Europe was arming. 
In a few months Austria was to sustain one of the most sudden 
and overwhelming defeats recorded in military history. In a 
few years the greatest military power in the world was to be 
overtaken by an even more appalling disaster. And these 
events, then close at hand, were to deal the death-blow to papal 
independence. The papacy was driven to bay, and those to 
whom the last defence was confided were certainly justified in 
employing every means in their power for strengthening their 
position. That Eome herself was riddled with rotten conspi- 
racies, and turned into a hunting-ground for political spies, 
while the support she received from Louis Napoleon had been 
already partially withdrawn, proves only how hard was the task 
of that man who, against such odds, maintained so gallant a 
fight. It is no wonder that he hunted down spies, and signed 
orders forcing suspicious characters to leave the city at a day^s 
notice; for the city was practically in a state of siege, and any 
relaxation of the iron discipline by which the great Cardinal 
governed would at any moment in those twenty years have 
proved disastrous. He was hated and feared ; more than once 
he was in imminent danger of his life, but he did his duty in 
his post. Had his authority fallen, it is impossible to say what 
evil might have ensued to the city and its inhabitants — evils 
vastly more to be feared than the entrance of an orderly Italian 
army through the Porta Pia. For the recollections of Count 
KossPs murder, and of the short and lawless Eepublic of 1848, 
were fresh in the minds of the people, and before they had 
faded there were dangerous rumours of a rising even less truly 
Eepublican in theory, and far more fatal in the practical social 
anarchy which must have resulted from its success. Giuseppe 
Mazzini had survived his arch-enemy, the great Cavour, and his 
infiuence was incalculable. 

But my business is not to write the history of those uncertain 
days, though no one who considers the social life of Eome, 
either then or now, can afford to overlook the infiuence of 
political events upon the everyday doings of men and women. 
We must follow the private carriage containing the two respect- 
able citizens who were on their way to Del Ferice^s house. 


CHAPTEE XXXIIL 

Now it chanced that Del Ferice was not at home at the hour 
when the carriage containing the detectives drew up at his 


318 


SAKACIKESCA. 


door. Indeed lie was rarely to be found at that time, for when 
he was not engaged elsewhere, he dined with Donna Tullia and 
her old countess, accompanying them afterwards to any of the 
quiet Lenten receptions to which they desired to go. Temistocle 
was also out, for it was his hour for supper, a meal which he 
generally ate in a small osteria opposite his master^s lodging. 
There he sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and 
debating whether he should indulge himself in another mezza 
foglietta of his favourite white wine. He was installed upon 
the wooden bench against the wall, behind the narrow table on 
which was spread a dirty napkin with the remains of his unctu- 
ous meal. The light from the solitary oil-lamp that hung from 
the black ceiling was not brilliant, and he could see well enough 
through the panes of the glass door that the carriage which had 
just stopped on the opposite side of the street was not a cab. 
Suspecting that some one had called at that unusual hour in 
search of his master, he rose from his seat and went out. 

He stood looking at the carriage. It did not please him. It 
had that peculiar look which used to mark the equipages of the 
Vatican, and which to this day distinguishes them from all 
others in the eyes of a born Roman. The vehicle was of rather 
antiquated shape, the horses were black, the coachman wore a 
plain black coat, with a somewhat old-fashioned hat; withal, 
the turnout was respectable enough, and well kept. But it 
did not please Temistocle. Drawing his hat over his eyes, he 
passed behind it, and having ascertained that the occupants, if 
there had been any, had already entered the house, he himself 
went in. The narrow staircase was dimly lighted by small oil- 
lamps. Temistocle ascended the steps on tiptoe, for he could 
already hear the men ringing the bell, and talking together in 
a low voice. The Neapolitan crept nearer. Again and again 
the bell was rung, and the men began to grow impatient. 

He has escaped,^^ said one angrily. 

Perhaps — or he has gone out to dinner — much more likely.” 

We had better go away and come later,” suggested the first. 

“ He is sure to come home. We had better wait. The 
orders are to take him in his lodgings.” 

‘‘We might go into the osteria opposite and drink ^foglietta” 

“No,” said the other, who seemed to be the one in authority. 
“We must wait here, if we wait till midnight. Those are the 
orders.” 

The second detective grumbled something not clearly audi- 
ble, and silence ensued. But Temistocle had heard quite 
enough. He was a quick-witted fellow, as has been seen, much 
more anxious for his own interests than for his master’s, though 
he had hitherto found it easy to consult both. Indeed, in n 
certain way he was faithful to Del Ferice, and admired him as 


SARACINESCA. 


319 


a soldier admires his general. The resolution he now formed 
did honour to his loyalty to Ugo and to his thievish instincts. 
He determined to save his master if he could, and to rob him 
at his leisure afterwards. If Del Ferice failed to escape, he 
would probably reward Temistocle for having done his best to 
help him; if, on the other hand, he got away, Temistocle had 
the key of his lodgings, and would help himself. But there 
was one difficulty in the way. Del Ferice was in evening dress 
at the house of Donna Tullia. In such a costume he would 
have no chance of passing the gates, which in those days were 
closed and guarded all night. Del Ferice was a cautious man, 
and, like many another in those days, kept in his rooms a couple 
of disguises which might serve if he was hard pressed. His 
ready money he always carried with him, because he frequently 
went into the club before coming home, and played a game of 
ecarte, in which he was usually lucky. The question was how to 
enter the lodgings, to get possession of the necessary clothes, and 
to go out again, without exciting the suspicions of the detectives. 

Temistocle^s mind was soon made up. He crept softly down 
the stairs, so as not to appear to have been too near, and then, 
making as much noise as he could, ascended boldly, drawing 
the key of the lodgings from his pocket as he reached the land- 
ing where the two men stood under the little oil-lamp. 

Buona sera, signori,” he said, politely, thrusting the key 
into the lock without hesitation. “ Did you wish to see the 
Conte del Ferice ? 

Yes,” answered the elder man, affecting an urbane manner. 

Is the Count at home ? ” 

I do not think so,” returned the Neapolitan. But I will 
see. Come in, gentlemen. He will not be long — sempre verso 
qiiesfora — he always comes home about this time.” 

"" Thank you,” said the detective. “ If you will allow us to 
wait ” 

what ? Should I leave i\\Q padrone’ s friends on the 
stairs ? Come in, gentlemen— sit down. It is dark. I will 
light the lamp.” And striking a match, Temistocle lit a couple 
of candles and placed them upon the table of the small sitting- 
room. The two men sat down, holding their hats upon their 

kll6@S 

“ If you will excuse me,” said Temistocle, I will go and 
make the signore’s coffee. He dines at the restaurant, and 
always comes home for his coffee. Perhaps the signori will 
also take a cup ? It is the same to make three as one.” 

But the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted none, 
which was just as well, since Temistocle had no idea of giving 
them any. He retired, however, to the small kitchen which 
belongs to every Koman lodging, and made a great clattering 


320 


SARACINESCA. 


with the coffee-pot. Presently he slipped into Del Ferice^s 
bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner a shabby black bag, 
which he took back with him into the kitchen. From the 
kitchen window ran the usual iron wire to the well in the small 
court, bearing an iron traveller with a rope for drawing water. 
Temistocle, clattering loudly, hooked the bag to the traveller 
and let it run down noisily; then he tied the rope and went out. 
He had carefully closed the door of the sitting-room, but he 
had been careful to leave the door which opened upon the stairs 
unlatched. He crept noiselessly out, and leaving the door still 
open, rushed down-stairs, turned into the little court, unhooked 
his bag from the rope, and taking it in his hand, passed quietly 
out into the street. The coachman was dozing upon the box 
of the carriage which still waited before the door, and would 
not have noticed Temistocle had he been awake. In a moment 
more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit. In the Piazza di 
Spagna he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to Donna Tullia^’s 
house, where he paid the man and sent him away. The ser- 
vants knew him well enough, for scarcely a day passed without 
his bringing some note or message from his master to Madame 
Mayer. He sent in to say that he must speak to his master on 
business. Del Ferice came out hastily in considerable agita- 
tion, which was by no means diminished by the sight of the 
well-known shabby black bag. 

Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone. 

The forza — the police,^^ he whispered, are in the house, 
Eccelenza. Here is the bag. Save yourself, for the love of 
heaven ! 

Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously. 

“ But ” he began, and then staggering back leaned 

against the wall. 

‘‘Quick — fly!^’ urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by 
the arm. “ It is the Holy Office — you have time. I told them 
you would be back, and they are waiting quietly — they will 
wait all night. Here is your overcoat,’’ he added, almost forc- 
ing his master into the garment — “ and your hat — here ! Come 
along, there is no time to lose. I will take you to a place 
where you can dress.” 

Del Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial good for- 
tune the footman did not come out into the hall. Donna 
Tullia and her guests had finished dinner, and the servants had 
retired to theirs; indeed the footman had complained to Te- 
mistocle of being called away from his meal to open the door. 
The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs, urging 
him to use all speed. As the two men hurried along the dark 
street they conversed in low tones. Del Ferice was trembling 
in every joint. 


SARACINESCA. 


321 


'"But Donna Tullia/' he almost whined. “I cannot leave 
her so — she must know ” 

"Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master,” an- 
swered Temistocle, dragging him along as fast as he could. 
" I will go back and tell your lady, never fear. She will leave 
Borne to-morrow. Of course you will go to Naples. She will 
follow you. She will be there before you.” 

Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His teeth 
were chattering with cold and fear; but as he began to realise 
his extreme peril, terror lent wings to his heels, and he almost 
outstripped the nimble Temistocle in the race for safety. 
They reached at last the ruined part of the city near the Porta 
Maggiore, and in the shadow of the deep archway where the 
road branches to the right towards Santa Croce in Gerusa- 
lemme, Temistocle halted. 

" Here,” he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a word, 
but began to undress himself in the dark. It was a gloomy 
and lowering night, the roads were muddy, and from time to 
time a few drops of cold rain fell silently, portending a coming 
storm. In a few moments the transformation was complete, 
and Del Ferice stood by his servants side in the shabby brown 
cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk. 

“Now comes the hard part,” said ‘ Temistocle, producing a 
razor and a pair of scissors from the bottom of the bag. Del 
Ferice had too often contemplated the possibility of flight to 
have omitted so important a detail. 

“You cannot see — you will cut my throat,” he murmured 
plaintively. 

But the fellow was equal to the emergency. Ketiring deeper 
into the recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between 
his teeth, puffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which 
he could just see his master’s face. He was in the habit of 
shaving him, and had no difficulty in removing the fair mous- 
tache from his upper lip. Then, making him hold his head 
down, and puffing harder than ever, he cropped his thin hair, and 
managed to make a tolerably respectable tonsure. But the whole 
operation had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del Ferice 
was trembling still. Temistocle thrust the clothes into his bag. 

“My watch!” objected the unfortunate man, “and my pearl 
studs — give them to me — what? You villain! you thief! 
you ” 

“ No chiaccliiere, no talk, 'padrone^ interrupted Temistocle, 
snapping the lock of the bag. “ If you chance to be searched, 
it would ill become a mendicant friar to be carrying gold 
watches and pearl studs. I will give them to Donna Tnllia this 
very evening. You have money — you can say that you are 
taking that to your convent.” 


322 


SARACIITESCA. 


Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia,” said Del Ferice. 
Whereupon Temistocle swore a terrible oath, which he did not 
fail to break, of course. But his master had to be satisfied, and 
when all was completed the two parted company. 

“ I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her pass- 
port,” said the Neapolitan. 

Take care of my things, Temistocle. Burn all the papers 
if you can — though I suppose the shirri have got them by this 
time. Bring my clothes — if you steal anything, remember there 
are knives in Eome, and I know where to write to have them 
used.” Whereat Temistocle broke into a torrent of protesta- 
tions. How could his master think that, after saving him at 
such risk, his faithful servant would plunder him ? 

‘‘^Well,” said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, ‘‘you are a great 
scoundrel, you know. But you have saved me, as you say. 
There is a scudo for you.” 

Temistocle never refused anything. He took the coin, kissed 
his master’s hand as a final exhibition of servility, and turned 
back towards the city without another word. Del Ferice shud- 
dered, and drew his heavy cowl over his head as he began to 
walk quickly towards the Porta Maggiore. Then he took the 
inside road, skirting the walls through the mud to the Porta 
San Lorenzo. He was perfectly safe in his disguise. He had 
dined abundantly, he had money in his pocket, and he had 
escaped the clutches of the Holy Office. A barefooted friar 
might walk for days unchallenged through the Roman Cam- 
pagna and the neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the 
south-eastern frontier. He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, 
but he could inquire without exciting the least suspicion. There 
are few disguises more complete than the garb of a Capuchin 
monk, and Del Ferice had long contemplated playing the part, 
for it was one which eminently suited him. His face, much 
thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally round, and wdthout 
his moustache would certainly pass for a harmless clerical visage. 
He had received an excellent education, and knew vastly more 
Latin than the majority of mendicant monks. As a good Roman 
he was well acquainted with every convent in the city, and knew 
the names of all the chief dignitaries of the Capuchin order. 
When a lad he had frequently served at Mass, and was 
acquainted with most of the ordinary details of monastic life. 
The worst that could happen to him might be to be called upon 
in the course of his travels to hear the dying confession of some 
poor wretch who had been stabbed after a game of mora. His 
case was altogether not so bad as might seem, considering the 
far greater evils he had escaped. 

At the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as usual, but 
the dozing watchman let Del Ferice out of the small door 


SARACIN-ESCA. 


323 


without remark. Auy one might leave the city, though it 
required a pass to gain admittance during the night. The 
heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the fugitive, and he breathed 
more freely as he stepped upon the road to Tivoli. In an hour 
he had crossed the Ponte Mammolo, shuddering as he looked 
down through the deep gloom at the white foam of the Teve- 
rone, swollen with the winter rains. But the fear of the Holy 
Office was behind him, and he hurried on his lonely way, walk- 
ing painfully in the sandals he had been obliged to put on to 
complete his disguise, sinking occasionally ankle-deep in mud, 
and then trudging over a long stretch of broken stones where 
the road had been mended; but not noticing nor caring for 
pain and fatigue, while he felt that every minute took him 
nearer to the frontier hills where he would be safe from pursuit. 
And so he toiled on, till he smelled the fetid air of the sulphur 
springs full fourteen miles from Rome ; and at last, as the road 
began to rise towards Hadrian’s Villa, he sat down upon a stone 
by the wayside to rest a little. He had walked five hours 
through the darkness, seeing but a few yards of the broad road 
before him as he went. He was weary and footsore, and the 
night was growing wilder with gathering wind and rain as the 
storm swept down the mountains and through the deep gorge of 
Tivoli on its way to the desolate black Campagna. He felt that 
if he did not die of exposure he was safe, and to a man in his 
condition bad weather is the least of evils. 

His refiections were not sweet. Five hours earlier he had 
been dressed as a fine gentleman should be, seated at a luxurious 
table in the company of a handsome and amusing woman who 
was to be his wife. He could still almost taste the delicate 
chaud froid, the tender woodcock, the dry champagne; he could 
still almost hear Donna Tullia’s last noisy sally ringing in his 
ears — and behold, he was now sitting by the roadside in the 
rain, in the wretched garb of a begging monk, five hours’ 
journey from Rome. He had left his affianced bride without a 
word of warning, had abandoned all his possessions to Temis- 
tocle — that scoundrelly thief Temistocle !— and he was utterly 
alone. 

But as he rested himself, drawing his monk’s hood closely 
over his head and trying to warm his freezing feet with the 
skirts of his rough brown frock, he refiected that if he ever got 
safely across the frontier he would be treated as a patriot, as 
a man who had suffered for the cause, and certainly as a man 
who deserved to be rewarded. He reflected that Donna Tullia 
was a woman who had a theatrical taste for romance, and that 
his present position was in theory highly romantic, however un- 
comfortable it might be in the practice. When he was safe his 
story would be told in the newspapers, and he would himself 


324 


SARACINESCA. 


take care that it was made interesting. Donna Tnllia would 
read it, would be fascinated by the tale of his sufferings, and 
would follow him. His marriage with her would then add im- 
mense importance to his own position. He would play his 
cards well, and with her wealth at his disposal he might aspire 
to any distinction he coveted. He only wished the situation 
could have been prolonged for three weeks, till he was actually 
married. Meanwhile he must take courage and push on, beyond 
the reach of pursuit. If once he could gain Subiaco, he could 
be over the frontier in twelve hours. From Tivoli there were 
vetture up the valley, cheap conveyances for the country people, 
in which a barefooted friar could travel unnoticed. He knew 
that he must cross the boundary by Trevi and the Serra di 
SanF Antonio. He would inquire the way from Subiaco. 

While Del Ferice was thus making his way across the Cam- 
pagna, Temistocle was taking measures for his own advantage 
and safety. He had the bag with his masters clothes, the 
valuable watch and chain, and the pearl studs. He had also 
the key to Del Ferice^s lodgings, of which he promised himself 
to make some use, as soon as he should be sure that the detec- 
tives had left the house. In the first place he made up his 
mind to leave Donna Tullia in ignorance of his master’s sudden 
departure. There was nothing to be gained by telling her the 
news, for she would probably in her rash way go to Del Ferice’s 
house herself, as she had done once before, and on finding he 
was actually gone she would take charge of his effects, whereby 
Temistocle would be the loser. As he walked briskly away 
from the ruinous district near the Porta Maggiore, and began to 
see the lights of the city gleaming before him, his courage rose 
in his breast. He remembered how easily he had eluded the 
detectives an hour and a half before, and he determined to 
cheat them again. 

But he had reckoned unwisely. Before he had been gone 
ten minutes the two men suspected, from the prolonged silence, 
that something was wrong, and after searching the lodging 
perceived that the polite servant who had offered them coffee 
had left the house without taking leave. One of the two 
immediately drove to the house of his chief and asked for in- 
structions. The order to arrest the servant if he appeared 
again came back at once. The consequence was that when 
Temistocle boldly opened the door with a ready framed excuse 
for his absence, he was suddenly pinioned by four strong arms, 
dragged into the sitting-room, and told to hold his tongue in 
the name of the law. And that is the last that was heard of 
Temistocle for some time. But when the day dawned the men 
knew that Del Ferice had escaped them. 

The affair had not been well managed. The Cardinal was a 


SARACINESCA. 


325 


good detective, but a bad policeman. In his haste he had 
made the mistake of ordering Del Ferice to be arrested in- 
stantly and in his lodgings. Had the statesman simply told 
the chief of police to secure Ugo as soon as possible without any 
scandal, he could not have escaped. But the officer interpreted 
the CardinaFs note to mean that Del Ferice was actually at his 
lodgings when the order was given. The Cardinal was sup- 
posed to be omniscient by his subordinates, and no one ever 
thought of giving any interpretation not perfectly literal to his 
commands. Of course the Cardinal was at once informed, and 
telegrams and mounted detectives were dispatched in all direc- 
tions. But Del Ferice’s disguise was good, and when just after 
sunrise a gendarme galloped into Tivoli, he did not suspect 
that the travel-stained and pale-faced friar, who stood telling 
his beads before the shrine just outside the Koman gate, was 
the political delinquent whom he was sent to overtake. 

Donna Tullia spent an anxious night. She sent down to 
Del Ferice^s lodgings, as Temistocle had anticipated, and the 
servant brought back word that he had not seen the Neapoli- 
tan, and that the house was held in possession by strangers, 
who refused him admittance. Madame Mayer understood well 
enough what had happened, and began to tremble for herself. 
Indeed she began to think of packing together her own valu- 
ables, in case she should be ordered to leave Rome, for she did 
not doubt that the Holy Office was in pursuit of Del Ferice, in 
consequence of some discovery relating to her little club of 
malcontents. She trembled for Ugo with an anxiety more 
genuine than any feeling of hers had been for many a day, not 
knowing whether he had escaped or not. But on the follow- 
ing evening she was partially reassured by hearing from Val- 
darno that the police had offered a large reward for Del 
Ferice’s apprehension. Valdarno declared his intention of 
leaving Rome at once. His life, he said, was not safe for a 
moment. That villain Gouache, who had turned Zouave, had 
betrayed them all, and they might be lodged in the Sant’ 
Uffizio any day. As a matter of fact, after he discovered how 
egregiously he had been deceived by Del Ferice, the Cardinal 
grew more suspicious, and his emissaries were more busy than 
they had been before. But Valdarno had never manifested 
enough wisdom, nor enough folly, to make him a cause of 
anxiety to the Prime Minister. Nevertheless he actually left 
Rome and spent a long time in Paris before he was induced to 
believe that he might safely return to his home. 

Roman society was shaken to its foundations by the news of 
the attempted arrest, and Donna Tullia found some slight 
compensation in becoming for a time the centre of interest. 
She felt, indeed, great anxiety for the man she was engaged to 


326 


SARACIKESCA. 


marry; but for the first time in her life she felt also that she 
was living in an element of real romance, of which she had 
long dreamed, but of which she had never found the smallest 
realisation. . Society saw, and speculated, and gossiped, after 
its fashion; hut its gossip was more subdued than of yore, for 
men began to ask who was safe, since the harmless Del Ferice 
had been proscribed. Old Saracinesca said little. He w^ould 
have gone to see the Cardinal and to olfer him his congratula- 
tions, since it would not be decent to offer his thanks; but the 
Cardinal was not in a position to be congratulated. If he had 
caught Del Ferice he would have thanked the Prince instead 
of waiting for any expressions of gratitude; but he did not 
catch Del Ferice, for certain very good reasons which will ap- 
pear in the last scene of this comedy. 

Three days after Ugo’s disappearance, the old Prince got 
into his carriage and drove out to Saracinesca. More than a 
month had elapsed since the marriage, and he felt that he must 
see his son, even at the risk of interrupting the honeymoon. 
On the whole, he felt that his revenge had been inadequate. 
Del Ferice had escaped the Holy Office, no one knew how; and 
Donna Tullia, instead of being profoundly humiliated, as she 
would have been had Del Ferice been tried as a common spy, 
was become a centre of attraction and interest, because her 
affianced husband had for some unknown cause incurred the 
displeasure of the great Cardinal, almost on the eve of her 
marriage — a state of things significant as regards the tone of 
Eoman society. Indeed the whole circumstance, which was 
soon bruited about among all classes with the most lively 
adornment and exaggeration, tended greatly to increase the 
fear and hatred which high and low alike felt for Cardinal An- 
tonelli — the man who was always accused and never heard in 
his own defence. 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

People wondered that Giovanni and Corona should have 
chosen to retire into the country for their honeymoon, instead 
of travelling to France and England, and ending their wed- 
ding-trip in Switzerland. The hills were so very cold at that 
early season, and besides, they would be utterly alone. People 
could not understand why Corona did not take advantage of 
the termination of her widowhood to mix at once with the 
world, and indemnify herself for the year of mourning by a 
year of unusual gaiety. But there were many, on the other 
hand, who loudly applauded the action, which, it was main- 
tained, showed a wise spirit of economy, and contrasted very 
favourably with the extravagance recently exhibited by young 
couples who in reality had far more cause to be careful of their 


SARACII^ESCA. 


327 


money. Those who held this view belonged to the old, patri- 
archal class, the still flourishing remnant of the last generation, 
who prided themselves upon good management, good morals, 
and ascetic living; the class of people in whose marriage-con- 
tracts it was stipulated that the wife was to have meat twice 
a-day, excepting on fast days, a drive — the trottata^ as it used 
to be called — daily, and two new gowns every year. Even in 
our times, when most of that generation are dead, these clauses 
are often introduced; in the first half of the century they were 
universal. A little earlier it used to be stipulated that the 
meat ” was not to be capra, goat's-flesh, which was considered 
to be food fit only for servants. But the patriarchal generation 
were a fine old class in spite of their economy, and they loudly 
applauded Giovanni’s conduct. 

No one, however, understood that the solitude of Saracinesca 
was really the greatest luxury the newly-married couple could 
desire. They wanted to be left alone, and they got their wish. 
No one had known of the preparations Giovanni had made for 
his wife’s reception, and had any idea of the changes in the 
castle reached the ears of the aforesaid patriarchs, they would 
probably have changed their minds in regard to Giovanni’s 
economy. The Saracinesca were not ostentatious, but they 
spent their money royally in their own quiet way, and the in- 
terior of the old stronghold had undergone a complete trans- 
formation, while the ancient grey stones of the outer walls and 
towers frowned as gloomily as ever upon the valley. Vast halls 
had been decorated and furnished in a style suited to the an- 
tiquity of the fortress, small sunny rooms had been fitted up 
with the more refined luxury which was beginning to be appre- 
ciated in Italy twenty years ago. A great conservatory had 
been built out upon the southern battlement. The aqueduct 
had been completed successfully, and fountains now played in 
the courts. The old-fashioned fireplaces had been again put 
into use, and huge logs burned upon huge fire-dogs in the halls, 
shedding a ruddy glow upon the trophies of old armour, the 
polished floors, and the heavy curtains. Quantities of magnifi- 
cent tapestry, some of which had been produced when Corona 
first visited the castle, were now hung upon the stairs and in 
the corridors. The great laldaccliino, the canopy which Eoman 
princes are privileged to display in their ante-chambers, was 
draped above the quartered arms of Saracinesca and Astrar- 
dente, and the same armorial bearings appeared in rich stained 
glass in the window of the grand staircase. The solidity and 
rare strength of the ancient stronghold seemed to grow even 
more imposing under the decorations and improvements of a 
later age, and for the first time Giovanni felt that Justice had 
been done to the splendour of his ancestral home. 


328 


SARACIN’ESCA. 


Here he and his dark bride dwelt in perfect unity and happi- 
ness, in the midst of their own lands, surrounded by their own 
people, and wholly devoted to each other. But though much 
of the day was passed in that unceasing conversation and ex- 
change of ideas which seem to belong exclusively to happily- 
wedded man and wife, the hours were not wholly idle. Daily 
the two mounted their horses and rode along the level stretch 
towards Aquaviva till they came to the turning from which 
Corona had first caught sight of Saracinesca. Here a broad 
road was already broken out; the construction was so far ad- 
vanced that two miles at least were already serviceable, the 
gentle grade winding backwards and forwards, crossing and 
recrossing the old bridle-path as it descended to the valley below; 
and now from the furthest point completed Corona could dis- 
tinguish in the dim distance the great square palace of Astrar- 
dente crowning the hills above the town. Thither the two 
rode daily, pushing on the work, consulting with the engineer 
they employed, and often looking forward to the day when for 
the first time their carriage should roll smoothly down from 
Saracinesca to Astrardente without making the vast detour 
which the old road followed as it skirted the mountain. There 
was an inexpressible pleasure in watching the growth of the 
work they had so long contemplated, in speculating on the ad- 
vantages they would obtain by so uniting their respective vil- 
lages, and in feeling that, being at last one, they were working 
together for the good of their people. For the men who did 
the work were without exception their own peasants, who were 
unemployed during the winter time, and who, but for the 
timely occupation provided for them, would have spent the cold 
months in that state of half-starved torpor peculiar to the 
indigent agricultural labourer when he has nothing to do — at 
that bitter season when father and mother and shivering little 
ones watch wistfully the ever-dwindling sack of maize, as day 
by day two or three handfuls are ground between the stones of 
the hand-mill and kneaded into a thick unwholesome dough, 
the only food of the poorer peasants in the winter. But now 
every man who could handle pickaxe and bore, and sledge- 
hammer and spade, was out upon the road from dawn to dark, 
and every Saturday night each man took home a silver scudo 
in his pocket; and where people are sober and do not drink 
their wages, a silver scudo goes a long way further than nothing. 
Yet many a lean and swarthy fellow there would have felt that 
he was cheated if besides his money he hM not carried home 
daily the remembrance of that tall dark lady’s face and kindly 
eyes and encouraging voice, and they used to watch for the 
coming of t\\Q gran principessa'' as anxiously as they ex- 
pected the coming of the steward with the money-bags on a 


SARACIKESCA. 


329 


Saturday evening. Often, too, the wives and daugnters of the 
rough workers would bring the men their dinners at noonday, 
rather than let them carry away their food with them in the 
morning, just for the sake of catching a sight of Corona, and 
of her broad-shouldered manly husband. And the men worked 
with a right good will, for the story had gone abroad that for 
years to come there would be no lack of work for willing hands. 

So the days sped, and were not interrupted by any incident 
for several weeks. One day Gouache, the artist Zouave, called 
at the castle. He had been quartered at Subiaco with a part 
of his company, but had not been sent on at once to Saraci- 
nesca as he had expected. Now, however, he had arrived with 
a small detachment of half-a-dozen men, with instructions to 
watch the pass. There was nothing extraordinary in his being 
sent in that direction, for Saracinesca was very near the frontier, 
and lay on one of the direct routes to the Serra di Sant^ An- 
tonio, which was the shortest hill-route into the kingdom of 
Naples; the country around was thought to be particularly 
liable to disturbance, and though no one had seen a brigand 
there for some years, the mountain-paths were supposed to be 
infested with robbers. As a matter of fact there was a great 
deal of smuggling carried on through the pass, and from time 
to time some political refugee found his way across the frontier 
at that point. 

Gouache was received very well by Giovanni, and rather 
coldly by Corona, who knew him but slightly. 

I congratulate you,” said Giovanni, noticing the stripes on 
the young man’s sleeves; “I see that you have risen in grade.” 

“Yes. I hold an important command of six men. I spend 
much time in studying the strategy of Conde and Napoleon. 
By the bye, I am here on a very important mission.” 

“Indeed!” 

“ I suppose you give yourselves the luxury of never reading 
the papers in this delightful retreat. The day before yesterday 
the Cardinal attempted to arrest our friend Del Ferice — have 
you heard that ?” 

“ No — what — has he escaped ? ” asked Giovanni and Corona 
in a breath. But their tones were different. Giovanni had 
anticipated the news, and was disgusted at the idea that the 
fellow had got off. Corona was merely surprised. 

“ Yes. Heaven knows how — he has escaped. I am here to 
cut him off if he tries to get to the Serra di Sant’ Antonio.” 

Giovanni laughed. 

“ He will scarcely try to come this way — under the very walls 
of my house,” he said. 

“ He may do anything. He is a slippery fellow.” Gouache 
proceeded to tell all he knew of the circumstances. 


330 


SARACINESCA. 


That is very strange,” said Corona, thoughtfully. Then 
after a pause, she added, “We are going to visit our road. Mon- 
sieur Gouache. Will you not come with us ? My husband will 
give you a horse.” 

Gouache was charmed. He preferred talking to Giovanni 
and looking at Corona’s face to returning to his six Zouaves, or 
patrolling the hills in search of Del Ferice. In a few minutes 
the three were mounted, and riding slowly along the level 
stretch towards the works. As they entered the new road Gio- 
vanni and Corona unconsciously fell into conversation, as usual, 
about what they were doing, and forgot their visitor. Gouache 
dropped behind, watching the pair and admiring them with 
true artistic appreciation. He had a Parisian’s love of luxury 
and perfect appointments as well as an artist’s love of beauty, 
and his eyes rested with unmitigated pleasure on the riders and 
their horses, losing no detail of their dress, their simple English 
accoutrements, their firm seats and graceful carriage. But at 
a turn of the grade the two riders suddenly slipped from his 
field of vision, and his attention was attracted to the marvel- 
lous beauty of the landscape, as looking down the valley 
towards Astrardente he saw range on range of purple hills ris- 
ing in a deep perspective, crowned with jagged rocks or sharply 
defined brown villages, ruddy in the lowering sun. He stopped 
his horse and sat motionless, drinking in the loveliness before 
him. So it is that accidents in nature make accidents in the 
lives of men. 

But Giovanni and Corona rode slowly down the gentle in- 
cline, hardly noticing that Gouache had stopped behind, and 
talking of the work. As they again turned a curve of the 
grade Corona, who was on the inside, looked up and caught 
sight of Gouache’s motionless figure at the opposite extremity 
of the gradient they had just descended. Giovanni looked 
straight before him, and was aware of a pale-faced Capuchin 
friar who with downcast eyes was toiling up the road, seem- 
ingly exhausted; a particularly weather-stained and dilapidated 
friar even for those wild mountains. 

“ Gouache is studying geography,” remarked Corona. 

“Another of those Capuccini!” exclaimed Giovanni, in- 
stinctively feeling in his pocket for coppers. Then with a 
sudden movement he seized his wife’s arm. She was close to 
him as they rode slowly along side by side. 

“ Good God ! Corona,” he cried, “ it is Del Ferice ! ” Corona 
looked quickly at the monk. His cowl was raised enough to 
show his features; but she would, perhaps, not have recognised 
his smooth-shaven face had Giovanni not called her attention 
to it. 

Del Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, he 


SARACINESOA. 


331 


paus3d, trembling and uncertain what to do. He had taken 
the wrong turn from the main road below; unaccustomed to 
the dialect of the hills, he had misunderstood the peasant who 
had told him especially not to take the bridle-path if he wished 
to avoid Saracinesca. He stopped, hesitated, and then, pulling 
his cowl over his face, walked steadily on. Giovanni glanced 
up and saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still 
absorbed in contemplating the landscape. 

“ Let him take his chance, muttered Saracinesca. What 
should I care ? ” 

“ No — no ! Save him, Giovanni, — he looks so miserable,” 
cried Corona, with ready sympathy. She was pale with excite- 
ment. 

Giovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but her 
pleading eyes were not to be refused. 

“ Then gallop back, darling. Tell Gouache it is cold in the 
valley — anything. Make him go back with you — I will save 
him since you wish it.” 

Corona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered up 
the hill again. The monk had continued his slow walk, and 
was now almost at Giovanni’s saddle-bow. The latter drew 
rein, staring hard at the pale features under the cowl. 

“ If you go on you are lost,” he said, in low distinct tones. 

The Zouaves are waiting for you. Stop, I say!” he exclaimed, 
as the monk attempted to pass on. Leaping to the ground Gio- 
vanni seized his arm and held him tightly. Then Del Ferice 
broke down. 

‘‘You will not give me up — for the love of Christ!”' he 
whined. Oh, if you have any pity— let me go — I never meant 
to harm you ” 

“ Look here,” said Giovanni. I would just as soon give 
you up to the Holy Office as not; but my wife asked me to save 
you ” 

God bless her! Oh, the saints bless her! God render her 
kindness ! ” blubbered Del Ferice, who, between fear and ex- 
haustion, was by this time half idiotic. 

‘^Silence!” said Giovanni, sternly. You may thank her if 
you ever have a chance. Come with me quietly. I will send 
one of the workmen round the hill with you. You must sleep 
at Trevi, and then get over the Serra as best you can.” He ran 
his arm through the bridle of his horse and walked by his 
enemy’s side. 

You will not give me up,” moaned the wretched man. 

For the love of heaven do not betray me — I have come so far 
— I am so tired.” 

The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care,” re- 
turned Giovanni. I will not. I give you my word that I will 


332 


SARACI^^ESCA. 


send you safely on, if you will stop this whining and behave 
like a man/^ 

At that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, but for 
many a year afterwards the rough words rankled in his heart. 
Giovanni was brutal for once; he longed to wring the fellow^s 
neck, or to give him up to Gouache and the Zouaves. The 
tones of Ugo’s voice reminded him of injuries not so old as to 
be yet forgotten. But he smothered his wrath and strode on, 
having promised his wife to save the wretch, much against his 
will. It was a quarter of an hour before they reached the 
works, the longest quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered 
in his whole life. Neither spoke a word. Giovanni hailed 
a sturdy-looking fellow who was breaking stones by the road- 
side. 

Get up, Carluccio,^^ he said. This good monk has lost 
his way. You must take him round the mountain, above 
Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show him the road to Trevi. It is 
a long way, but the road is good enough after Ponza — it is 
shorter than to go round by Saracinesca, and the good friar is 
in a hurry.” 

Carluccio started up with alacrity. He greatly preferred 
roaming about the hills to breaking stones, provided he was 
paid for it. He picked up his torn jacket and threw it over 
one shoulder, setting his battered hat jauntily on his thick 
black curls. 

Give us a benediction, padre mio, and let us be off — non e 
mica un passo — it is a good walk to Trevi.” 

Del Ferice hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or say, 
and even if he had wished to speak he was scarcely able to 
control his voice. Giovanni cut the situation short by turning 
on his heel and mounting his horse. A moment later he was 
cantering up the road again, to the considerable astonishment 
of the labourers, who were accustomed to see him spend at 
least half an hour in examining the work done. But Giovanni 
was in no humour to talk about roads. He had spent a horri- 
ble quarter of an hour, between his desire to see Del Ferice 
punished and the promise he had given his wife to save him. 
He felt so little sure of himself that he never once looked 
back, lest he should be tempted to send a second man to stop 
the fugitive and deliver him up to justice. He ground his 
teeth together, and his heart was full of bitter curses as he 
rode up the hill, hardly daring to reflect upon what he had 
done. That, in the eyes of the law, he had wittingly helped a 
traitor to escape, troubled his conscience little. His instinct 
bade him destroy Del Ferice by giving him up, and he would 
have saved himself a vast deal of trouble if he had followed his 
impulse. But the impulse really arose from a deep-rooted 


SARACINESCA. 


333 


desire for revenge, which, having resisted, he regretted bitterly 
— very much as Shakespeare^s murderer complained to his 
companion that the devil was at his elbow bidding him not 
murder the duke. Giovanni spared his enemy solely to please 
his wife, and - half-a-dozen words from her had produced a 
result which no consideration of mercy or pity could have 
brought about. 

Corona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road to 
wait for him. By an imperceptible nod, Giovanni informed his 
wife that Del Ferice was safe. 

I am sorry to have cut short our ride,^^ he said, coldly. 

My wife found it chilly in the valley.” 

Anastase looked curiously at Giovannis pale face, and won- 
dered whether anything was wrong. Corona herself seemed 
strangely agitated. 

“Yes,” answered Gouache, with his gentle smile; “the 
mountain air is still cold.” 

So the three rode silently back to the castle, and at the gate 
Gouache dismounted and left them, politely declining a rather 
cold invitation to come in. Giovanni and Corona went silently 
up the staircase together, and on into a small apartment which 
in that cold season they had set apart as a sitting-room. When 
they were alone. Corona laid her hands upon Giovanni^s 
shoulders and gazed long into his angry eyes. Then she threw 
her arms round his neck and drew him to her. 

“ My beloved,” she cried, proudly, “ you are all I thought — 
and more too.” 

“ Do not say that,” answered Giovanni. “ I would not have 
lifted a finger to save that hound, but for you.” 

“ Ah, but you did it, ‘dear, all the same,” she said, and kissed 
him. 

On the following evening, without any warning, old Saraci- 
nesca arrived, and was warmly greeted. After dinner Giovanni 
told him the story of Del Ferice^s escape. Thereupon the old 
gentleman fiew into a towering rage, swearing and cursing in a 
most characteristic manner, but finally declaring that to arrest 
spies was the work of spies, and that Giovanni had behaved like 
a gentleman, as of course he could not help doing, seeing that 
he was his own son. 

And so the curtain falls upon the first act. Giovanni and 
Corona are happily married. Del Ferice is safe across the 
frontier among his friends in Naples, and Donna Tullia is wait- 
ing still for news of him, in the last days of Lent, in the year 
1866. To carry on the tale from this point would be to enter 
upon a new series of events more interesting, perhaps, than 
those herein detailed, and of like importance in the history of 


334 


SARACINESCA. 


the Saracinesca family, but forming by their very nature a dis- 
tinct narrative — a second act to the drama, if it may be so 
called. I am content if in the foregoing pages I have so far 
acquainted the reader with those characters which hereafter 
will play more important parts, as to enable him to comprehend 
the story of their subsequent lives, and in some measure to 
judge of their future by their past, regarding them as acquaint- 
ances, if not sympathetic, yet worthy of some attention. 

Especially I ask for indulgence in matters political. I am 
not writing the history of political events, but the history of a 
Roman family during times of great uncertainty and agitation. 
If any one says that I have set up Del Ferice as a type of the 
Italian Liberal party, carefully constructing a villain in order 
to batter him to pieces with the artillery of poetic justice, I 
answer that I have done nothing of the kind. Del JFerice is 
indeed a type, but a type of a depraved class which very un- 
justly represented the Liberal party in Rome before 1870, and 
which, among those who witnessed its proceedings, drew upon 
the great political body which demanded the unity of Italy an 
opprobrium that body was very far from deserving. The honest 
and upright Liberals were waiting in 1866. What they did, 
they did from their own country, and they did it boldly. To 
no man. of intelligence need I say that Del Ferice had no more 
affinity with Massimo D^Azeglio, with the great Favour, with 
Cavour^s great enemy Giuseppe Mazzini, or with Garibaldi, than 
the jackal has with the lion. Del Ferice represented the scum 
which remained after the revolution of 1848 had subsided. He 
was one of those men who were used and despised by their 
betters, and in using whom Favour himself was provoked into 
writing Se noi facessimo per noi quel che faciamo per ITtalia, . 
saremmo gran bricconi’^ — if we did for ourselves what we do 
for Italy, we should be great blackguards. And that there 
w^ere honourable and just men outside of Rome wdll sufficiently 
appear in the sequel to this veracious tale. 


THE EHD. 


THE “ SARACINESCA” SERIES. 

SARACINESCA, 

SANT’ ILARIO, 

DON ORSINO. 

Three volumes, uniform, in box, $3.00. 


^^Saracinesca^' is the first of a group of novels by the satae author 
called the ^'SARACINESCA ” Series. 

The Subsequent Fortunes of the Saracinesca Family are to be 
found in 

5ant’ Ilario. 

A SEQUEL TO “SARACINESCA.” 

12mo, cloth. Price $1.00. 

A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Admirably developed, 
with a naturalness beyond praise. ... It must rank with ‘ Greifenstein ’ as 
the best work the author has produced .” — New York Tribune. 


The Third Volume of the Series, continuing the Fascinating 
History of the Saracinesca Family, is 

Don Orsino. 

A SEQUEL TO “ SARACINESCA” AND “SANT’ ILARIO.” 

l2mo, cloth. Price $1.00. 

“ We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all Mr. 
Crawford’s fictions .” — Evening Bulletin. 


Mr. Crawford’s latest Roman story, “Pietro Ghisleri,” also 
introduces characters from this famous series. 


These volumes are only to be had in cloth, bound uniformly, 

price $1.00 each, of all booksellers. 

1 


UNIFORM EDITION 


OF 

F. Marion Crawford’s Complete Novels. 

12mo, Cloth, One Dollar each. 


Marion Darche. 

A STORY WITHOUT COMMENT. 

Mr. Crawford’s new work “ Marion Darche ” is destined to have a great popularity. 
It is in a new vein. In its scenes and incidents it is American through and through. The 
situations described are almost sensationally dramatic, and the plot ... is skilfully de- 
veloped . — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

Pietro Qhisleri. 

The story has power, is highly dramatic in parts, and the threads of the plot are 
held firmly in the hands of a master . — Philadelphia Telegraph. 

Children of the King. 

A TALE OF SOUTHERN ITALY. 

It is a delicious picture of Calabria and Sorrento and Capri that Mr. Crawford gives 
us in the new book with the charming name. — The Nation. 

The Three Fates. 

The strength of the story lies in its portrayal of the aspirations, disciplinary efforts, 
trials, and triumphs of the man who is a born writer, and who, by long and painful ex- 
periences, learns the good that is in him and the way in which to give it effectual expres- 
sion. The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality of each one of 
the very dissimilar three fates is set forth in an entirely satisfactory manner. . . . Mr. 
Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of human nature and his 
finest resources as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this story. 
Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it 
affords a view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we should say of New York, life 
that have not hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and felicity. — 
Boston Beacon. 


2 


UNIFORM EDITION OF F. MARION CRA WFORD COMPLETE NOVELS. 


The Witch of Prague. 

A FANTASTIC TALE. ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY. 

Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strong a one as that which 
dominates “ The Witch of Prague.” . . . The artistic skill with which this extraordinary 
story is constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has 
scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. ... A very 
remarkable, powerful, and interesting story. — New York Tribune. 


A Cigarette=maker’s Romance. 

It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic power. — Boston Com- 
mercial Bulletin. 


In the “ Cigarette-maker’s Romance ” Mr. Crawford may be said to have given new 
evidence of the novel-maker’s art. ... It is to be hoped that every one who reads Mr. 
Crawford’s tale will take heed of the rare finish of his literary work, a model in its kind. — 
The Critic. / 

Y Greifenstein. 


” Greifenstein ” is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates once more the author’s 
unusual versatility, it also shows that he has not been tempted into careless writing by the 
vogue of his earlier books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. 
The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of their energy. His 
characters are stern, rugged, determined men and women, governed by powerful preju- 
dices and iron conventions, types of a military people, in whom the sense of duty has 
been cultivated until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of “ no- 
blesse oblige ” is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the fundamental rule of con- 
duct. What such people may be capable of is startlingly shown. — New York Tribune. 


I Mr. Isaacs. 

A TALE OF MODERN INDIA. 


The writer first shows the hero in relation with the people of the East and then skil- 
fully brings into connection the Anglo-Saxon race. It is in this showing of the different 
effects which the two classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one 
of its chief merits lies. The characters are original, and one does not recognize any of 
the hackneyed personages who are so apt to be considered indispensable to novelists, and 
which, dressed in one guise or another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated 
by the same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all endowed with in- 
dividualism and independent life and thought. . . . There is a strong tinge of mysticism 
about the book which is one of its greatest charms. — Boston Transcript. 

This is a fine and noble story. It has freshness like a new and striking scene on which 
one has never looked before. It has character and individuality. It has meaning. It is 
lofty and uplifting. It is strongly, sweetly, tenderly written. It is in all respects an 
uncommon novel. ... In fine, “ Mr. Isaacs” is an acquaintance to be made. — The Liter- 
ary World. 


3 


UNIFORM EDITION OF F. MARION CRA WFORD 'S COMPLETE NOVELS. 


Dr. Claudius. 

A TRUE STORY. 

There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a fund of knowledge, that 
speaks well for future production. . . . To be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book 
must be read, as no mere cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting 
points and excellences, for without a doubt “ Dr. Claudius ” is the most interesting book 
that has been published for many months, and richly deserves a high place in the public 
favor. — St. Louis Spectator. 

“ Dr. Claudius ” is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so much merit as “ Mr. 
Isaacs.” The hero is a magnificent specimen of humanity, and sympathetic readers 
will be fascinated by his chivalrous wooing of the beautiful American countess. — Boston 
Traveller. / 

y With the Immortals. 

The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a writer whose mind 
was very sensitive to the current of modem thought and progress, while its execution, the 
setting it forth in proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one 
whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowl- 
edge both literary and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. 
The book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of 
novels. Indeed Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordi- 
nary plane of novel interest. — Boston Advertiser. 

y' Marzio’s Crucifix. 

We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the highest department of 
character-painting in words. — Churchman. 

We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in an extraor- 
dinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of proportion is just, and his nar- 
rative flows along with ease and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written 
otherwise, so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the 
sequence of incident after incident. As a story “ Marzio’s Crucifix ” is perfectly con- 
structed. — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

Khaled. 

A TALE OF ARABIA. 

Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested rather than 
elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the building out and development 
of the character of the woman who becomes the hero’s wife and whose love he finally wins 
being an especially acute and highly-finished example of the story-teller’s art. . . . That 
it is beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the 
very end, none who know the depth and artistic finish of Mr, Crawford’s work need be 
told. — The Chicago Times. 


4 


UNIFORM EDITION OF F. MARION CRA WFORD^S COMPLETE NOVELS. 


It abounds in stirring incidents and barbaric picturesqueness ; and the love-struggle of 
the unloved Khaled is manly in its simplicity and noble in its ending. Mr. Crawford has 
done nothing better than, if he has done anything as good as, “ Khaled.” — The Mail and 
Express. ’ ^ 


Zoroaster. 


The novel opens with a magnificent description of the march of the Babylonian court 
to Belshazzar’s feast, with the sudden and awful ending of the latter by the marvellous 
writing on the wall which Daniel is called to interpret. From that point the story moves 
on in a series of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail to hold the 
reader fascinated and spellbound to the end. — Christian at IVork. 

As a matter of literary art solely, we doubt if Mr. Crawford has ever before given us 
better work than the description of Belshazzar’s feast with which the story begins, or the 
death-scene with which it closes. — The Christian Union. 


A Tale of a Lonely Parish. 

It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and vivid story. 
. . . It is doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic 
in its nice balancing of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of 
innocence and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue. — Critic. 

Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dramatic, the most finished, 
the most compact. . . . The taste which is left in one’s mind after the story is finished is 
exactly what the fine reader desires and the novelist intends. ... It has no defects. It is 
neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect. — Boston Beacon. 

The plot is unfolded and the character-drawing given with the well-known artistic 
skill of Mr. Crawford, and to those who have not before read it this story will furnish a 
rare literary treat. — Home Journal. 


To Leeward. 


The lives of the characters are sketched with boldness ; their actions spring from 
motives clearly apparent, and the issue is logical. There is no exceeding subtlety of 
thought in the book ; the passions are the elementary ones of love, hate, jealousy, and the 
moral lies deep in the very picture of life which is presented. — Atlantic Monthly. 


A Roman Singer. 

An American 
Paul 


Politician. 

Patoff. 

Saracinesca. 

Sant’ llario. 

Don Orsino. 


MACMILLAN & CO., 


66 FIFTH AVENUE, 


5 


NEW YORK. 


Macmillan’s Dollar Novels. 


EACH NOVEL COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 

Price $1.00 Each. 


BOLDREWOOD, ROLF. 

Nevermore. 

Sidney-Side Saxon. 

CLIFFORD, MRS. W. K. 

The Last Touches. 

COOPER, EDWARD H. 

Richard Escott. 

CRAWFORD, F. MARION. 

Marion Darche. 

Pietro Ghisleri. 

Children of the King. 

Don Orsino, a sequel to “ Saraci- 
nesca” and “ Sant’ Ilario.” 

The Three Fates. 

The Witch of Prague. 

Khaled. 

A Cigarette-Maker’s Romance. 

Sant’ Ilario, a sequel to “ Saraci- 
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Greifenstein. 

With the Immortals. 

To Leeward. 

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Paul Patoff. 

Marzio’s Crucifix. 

Saracinesca. 

A Tale of a Lonely Parish. 
Zoroaster. 

Dr. Claudius. 

Mr. Isaacs. 

CUSHING, PAUL. 

The Great Chin Episode. 


DICKENS, CHARLES. 

The Pickwick Papers. 

Oliver Twist. 

Nicholas Nickleby. 

Martin Chuzzlewit. 

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Barnaby Rudge. 

Dombey and Son. 

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Cecilia de Noel. 

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The Real Thing. 

The Lesson of the Master. 

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Aspern Papers. 

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6 


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KIPLING, RUDYARD. 

Life's Handicap. 

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KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 

Two Years Ago. 

Westward Ho. 

Hypatia. 

Alton Locke. 

Hereward the Wake. 

Yeast. 

LAWLESS, HON. EMILY. 

Crania. 

LYSAGHT, SIDNEY R. 

The Marplot. 

PARRY, MAJ. E. G. 

The Story of Dick. 

QUILLER-COUCH, A. T. 

The Delectable Duchy. Stories, 
Studies, and Sketches. 

RHOADES, W. C. 

The Story of John Trevennick. 

ROY, JOHN. 

Helen Treveryan. 

RUSSELL, W. CLARK. 

A Strange Elopement. 

.RUTHERFORD, MARK. 

Catharine Furze. Edited by his 
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SHORTHOUSE, J. HENRY. 

John Inglesant. 

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Sir Percival. 


THEODOLI, MARCHESA. 

Under Pressure. 

“TIM.” 

By a New Writer. 

VICTOR, HORACE. 

Mariam. . 

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The History of David Grieve, 
Miss Bretherton. 

YONGE CHARLOTTE M, 

Grisly Grisell. 

Strolling Players. 

The Heir of Redclyflfe. 
Heartsease. 

Hopes and Fears. 

Dynevor Terrace. 

The Daisy Chain. 

The Trial. 

Pillars of the House, Vol. I. 

“ “ “ Vol. II. 

The Young Stepmother. 

The Clever Woman. 

The Three Brides. 

My Young Alcides. 

The Caged Lion. 

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. 

The Chaplet of Pearls. 

Lady Hester. 

Magnum Bonum. 

Love and Life. 

Unknown to History. 

Stray Pearls. 

The Armourer’s ’Prentices. 
Two Sides of the Shield. 
Nuttie’s Father. 

Scenes and Characters. 
Chantry House. 

A Modern Telemachus. 
Beechcroft at Rockstone. 

A Reputed Changeling. 

Two Penniless Princesses. 
That Stick. 


In the Press. In tivo volumes^ small 12mo, cloth. Price, $2.00. 

A NEW NO FEE BY THE AUTHOR OF ROBERT ELSMERE.’^ 

MARCELLA, 

BY 

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD, t. 

Author of The History of David Grieve f Robert Elsmeref etc. 

' With a New Portrait. 

‘ ‘ The book is in no sense a study of Socialism, though the background and 
atmosphere of the story are very much supplied by some of the social ques- 
tions of the period which now come so practically home to each one of us. 
It is the history of a woman, and will be called by her name. It is expected 
that the new novel will have finally left the author’s hands by the middle of 
February, and that it will be published simultaneously in England and 
America about the first week in April. Mrs. Ward’s last novel, ‘The History 
of David Grieve,’ has been a remarkable success, the circulation having 
already reached a total of from 130,000 to 140,000 copies in the various 
copyright editions.” — The Literary World {Loftdon), January 12, 1894. 


Works by Mrs. Humphry Ward. 

THE HI5T0RY OF DAVID QRiEVE. 

i2mo, cloth extra, $1.00. 

Also a Library Edition, unif or tn with the Library Edition of ‘'Robert Elsmere,'* 

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power as a romance. The pulse of genius throbs in it, and the glamour of 
great imagination plays over it.” — 71 ie Independent. 

ROBERT ELSMERE. 

Library Edition. 2 vols., i2mo, $3.00. 

THE JOURNAL INTIME OF HENRLFREDERIC AMIEL. 

Translated with a^ Introduction and Notes by Mrs. Humphry Ward. 

A reprmt of the second English Edition, with passages from the enlarged 
fifth French edition, and a topical index. 

New and Cheaper Edition. i2mo, $1.00. 

Also, in two volumes, i8mo, gilt top, $1.50; in ornamental silk binding, $2.50; 
in half calf $4.00; half morocco, $5.00. 

“ A work of wonderful beauty, depth, and charm. . . . Will stand beside 
such confessions as St. Augustine’s and Pascal’s. ... It is a book to 
converse with again and again; fit to stand among the choicest volumes that 
we esteem as friends of our souls.” — Christian Register. 


MACMILLAN & CO,, 


66 FIFTH AVENUE, 


NEW YORK 







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